


To Love the Enemy

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Confusion, First Dates, First Love, Fluff, Inexperienced Jim, Jim has no idea, Loss of Identity, M/M, Nervousness, New Relationship, Pool scene, Sexual Inexperience, Sherlock is forward, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Virgin!Jim, introduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 46,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"<br/>"We gonna kiss?"</p><p>AU in which Sherlock realizes his feelings for Jim from the get-go... And actually does something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Took Your Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #1: Introduction
> 
> Now with new edits!

"Consulting criminal." Sherlock whispers in awe, "Brilliant." 

"Awe" seemed almost too simplistic a word to describe the feelings he had toward the man preening before him. Finally. _Finally_. Sherlock had been able to put a face to the name "Moriarty," and he was not at all disappointed by what he found. 

Standing there, in a freshly pressed Westwood suit, James Moriarty, Dear Jim, _Moriarty_ , was clean, proper, confident, brilliant, and _conflicted._ Until now they had been bantering, discussing the smaller man's chosen profession, Jim making some overtly sexual references along the way (that didn't seem to bother the detective at all).

Sherlock could read volumes about him, but what fascinates him in this very moment is the feeling of _completion_ he feels, being this close to his nemesis, _Without your first case, I never would've had mine… Without you, I never would've began_. 

"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me." For an instant, Sherlock sees something cross the Irishman's brow — sadness? "And no one ever will." 

"I did." The detective replies quickly. The fleeting moment of humanity betrayed the criminal — until that point, Sherlock had assumed Jim was just flirting to off-put him. _But no, it's never that simple, is it?_ He grinned, _He wasn't just looking for a game… he was looking for a playmate. Must've met his standards…_

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my _way_." 

"Thank you." _Oh, we could definitely be close._

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over Sherlock," _No it's not_ , he thinks as Moriarty's voice goes falsetto, "Daddy's had enough now!" 

 _Enough? We've just begun._ The sleuth thinks, quite pleased with himself, _You're really quite cute, but your genius intellect far outshines anything looks could ever give me. Don't you think you're trying too hard just to ask me out? I wouldn't mind a date or two…_

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

 _All quite lavish tokens of your affection…_ Sherlock muses, no longer listening to Jim's actual words, _Most people just go with flowers. If you'd wanted me attention this badly, you could've just given me your number as you are now…_ _But perhaps I needed this whole charade… No one has ever tickled my fancy this thoroughly..._

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Jim had gone serious for a moment, as he seemed to phase between giddy and deadpan on the slightest whim. 

_Brilliant, charismatic, clearly playful… I doubt a few romantic overtures would complicate our adversarial relationship… I also can't help but notice that we've gradually been shuffling toward each other this whole conversation… like magnetism, really._

"Although I have _loved_ this — this little game of ours." He shifts around in glee, moving forward the slightest bit, another change taking place, "Playing Jim from I.T., playing _gay._ Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Suddenly, Sherlock burst into laughter, unable to stop. Jim cocked his head to the side, perplexed — there had been many different reactions to direct threats before. But never laughter, "Something funny?" 

"Dear Jim, _you_ are."

"What?"

"You say, ' _playing_ ' like you _mean_ it."

"What? I — it was an _act_ , Sherlock."

"Oh? Then why are your eyes dilated?" 

"This is _thrilling_ , nothing more." Jim blinks a few times, as if it'd correct his pupil size. 

"That's not all your eyes tell me, you know." Sherlock takes a step forward, high on confidence, "You've given me a good look-over, several times now."

Unconsciously, Jim takes a step backward, the look in the detective's eyes pure _predatory_ , "Sizing up my enemy."

"Pun intended?" He smirks wickedly.  

"I… no, you're just doing this to unnerve me." Moriarty regains his footing, moving forward until their faces are almost touching. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To _you_?"

"We gonna kiss?"

Moriarty shivers, the words hitting every vertebra of his spinal column. For a moment, he begins to lean forward, but snaps out of it, "Dear me, all out of accusations? Can't find anymore 'evidence' to support your delirium?" _Did I just consider kissing Sherlock? No! He's the_ enemy _. I want him gone, not in my bed._

"Oh no, I was just _beginning_. At the hospital, after you took off, I noted your eyebrows were tinted, you style your hair meticulously, your skin had clearly been treated _consistently_ to keep that delicious sheen you've got going, and now —" Sherlock reaches out and grabs Jim's wrist violently, "Your pulse is well above _slightly_ elevated."

"I could _kill_ you!" Moriarty jerked his hand away from Sherlock, suddenly very afraid of what the detective was saying. In the reflection of Jim's eyes (his beautiful, gold and brown eyes), he can see sniper lasers, focusing around his sternum, "I will burn the _heart_ out of you!" James' voice turns harsh, but Sherlock chuckles, continuing as if he hadn't spoken.

"So I must draw the conclusion that either you're _aware_ of your attraction, and denying it. Or _somehow_ it must be that the great Moriarty is a fool in the matters of the heart. Which is it?"

"Neither! I don't —"

"Please, Jim, lying is _so_ unnecessary." He lightly caresses the criminal's face, who was now too stunned to pull away, "Especially when it's clear the feelings are mutual."

At a loss for words, Moriarty retreated into his head, "I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"Neither am I. But I know a kindred spirit when I see one." Lifting Jim's chin gently, the taller man bends slightly to press a kiss to his nemesis' lips. 

It's quick, too quick for Moriarty to stop. But as their mouths touch, he's no longer sure he wants to. It's soft. Warm. Intoxicating. Involuntarily, he parts his lips, allowing Sherlock's tongue to trace them. His pulse has given up being _elevated_ , now viciously throttling. 

Sherlock's free hand rests on Jim's hip, gripping slightly. Pulling them flush together, the pressure so delightfully tantalizing. James realizes how unbearably close he is to moaning pathetically. 

He had never considered himself a sexual being, or even _had_ sex, for that matter. Sex was a distraction from the work, and thus not worth his interests. But in this moment, Jim considers the idea that he _might_ be attracted to Sherlock. The person who most represented his work. The first person who was ever on his level. 

Suddenly, he remembers where he is, and who he's with, lips now fumbling together hopelessly. This was not at all how he wanted this to turn out. Twitching away, the look of pure horror on Moriarty's face is enough to give the detective pause.

"Well…" Jim is terrified, realizing his quivering hand had unconsciously risen to Sherlock's, "I'd better be off. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." He disengaged as calmly as he could, walking away at a brisk pace, trying not to let the jelly in his legs show.

"Catch you later!" Sherlock calls out playfully, "I'll text you!" 

"No, you _won't_!" Jim replies gruffly, frightened by the fact he _hopes_ he will.


	2. Something Unique

"Sherlock, give it up, I know you're following me." Moriarty had known it for several blocks now, but staunchly refused to do anything about it. _I could have you killed, I could have you maimed, I could have you tortured in thousands of different ways, and you choose to follow me? You must have a death wish_. But the nagging thoughts beg to protest, _He likes you. He knows what you are, seen the glimpses of what you do in the world, and still… no,_ because _of that, he still takes an interest_.

In truth, James would've been content to let the pursuit continue for eons, but he was now standing in front of the apartment complex he intended to stay in that night. One of his spare flats for when he was on an important case. And really, none had ever seemed more important than meeting Sherlock. _That is, until he_ ruined _it,_ Jim grumbled internally, _With his stupid lips. Made my brain nigh_ useless _for the rest of the evening…_

As the more callous thoughts hit Moriarty's mind, Sherlock steps out from behind a wall, "This your place, then?"

" _One_ of them." Jim chews his bottom lip. _Not inviting Sherlock in would demonstrate my fear. Inviting Sherlock in would most likely lead to disastrous consequences,_ "I'm in 314. Care to join me?"

"Thought I was wrong about my… deductions." 

"You're Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty sighs, "You're rarely wrong about anything. Even more accurate when it comes to your work." 

"I've been wrong before." Sherlock says, baiting Jim to confirm him outright. 

"Do you want to come in or not?" Moriarty walks through the front door.

Following him in, Sherlock says nothing, _Good enough._ _  
_

They take the lift to the third floor, walking out into a long hallway. It was slightly more upscale than the average London apartment complex, but definitely a step down from Moriarty's usual haunts.

Jim's temporary flat is spacious — the living room sparse, with only the essentials of furniture. Some art, fancy cloth murals from what appeared to be Thailand. To the left, a door stood ajar, revealing a dining room, perhaps a kitchen beyond it. On the right, the room opened to a small hallway, which Sherlock assumes went to a bedroom and washroom. 

"Trying to make some grand assumptions about my character?" Jim mumbles, hanging his coat on hooks next to the door, gesturing to Sherlock's, "May I offer you a drink?"

"That's alright. I won't be staying long, people might begin to wonder where I am."

"Your brother." It's not a question; of the many people on Moriarty's "persons of interest" list, Mycroft Holmes sat in the #2 position. Second, of course, only to Sherlock. 

Jim sits carefully on the couch, eyes fixed on his visitor. Sherlock doesn't move.

"Yes. He worries about me _constantly_. Or so I'm told." He shrugs, gazing longingly at the man on the sofa, "But you would know, you've got an older brother."

"I can see your legendary powers of perception don't let the _obvious_ slip through." Jim smiles and momentarily forgets Sherlock's advances, feeling as if he were talking to his adversary again. Perhaps the closest thing he'll ever have to a friend, "Go on then, would you like to tell me how you know?"

"On most days, I would. But I've got something more important than showing off."

"Your reputation would beg to differ!" Jim scoffs, "So what is it? It's a fair ways out from your usual path just to prove a _point_." 

"Opportunity." The detective smirks, warmth rising in his chest — he'd never felt nervous before, but it seemed the appropriate label for what he was feeling. _Strange… I've never been so unsure about someone's reactions. Usually, I can just predict everything they'll say. But Jim... let's call him a "wildcard."_

"For?"

"I think we could have something quite special. _Unique_ , even." _Because I can't figure you out. Yet._

"Hate to disappoint you, honey, but romantic relationships are hardly _rare_ these days." Jim sniffs, trying to hide his excitement.

"Between _ordinary_ people, perhaps." Sherlock puts force on the word, piquing Moriarty's immense curiosity. Almost pulling the argument straight from his brain, Sherlock is spot-on.

"But between us…"

"The only ones of our species." 

From there, the detective allows Jim to draw the conclusions he already has. _It has been a rather lonely life…_ Moriarty considers, _I don't think about it as a rule, but now that he mentions it… ah, I didn't_ mind _until he brought it up. Why is he doing this to me?_

"I'll let you think about it." The detective smirks and makes for the door.

"Sherlock, wait." Moriarty's call contains just a pinch of desperation. 

Sherlock freezes, hand over the doorknob. Turning around, thinking he's won, he had just enough time to see Moriarty lunge at him, "It must've occurred to you what a bad idea this was — tailing me back to the lion's den..." The smaller man said, forearm pinned over the detective's trachea. 

"Of course, but you won't kill me." Sherlock says carefully, the pressure on his windpipe making words a finite resource. 

"Oh no? Why not? You've already pointed out brother dearest doesn't know where you are. And honey, trust me, no amount of _attraction_ could save you now."

"Because you'd lose." He said simply. 

This caught Jim's attention, "Killing my enemy is _losing_? Is it _Opposite_ Day?"

"Not at all. But you told me you don't like getting your hands dirty. At first I assumed it was because you didn't want any real crimes traceable to you. Or, heaven forbid you _chip_ _a_ _nail_." Sherlock grins, wheezing feebly, "But no, the explanation if far more beautiful than that."

"Enlighten me."

"Murder. By your own hands. Watching as the light leaves a body. Choking the last breath out of me... It'd be far too intimate."

Jim flinched, the tension in his muscles faltering, if only for a moment.

"You don't kill people face to face, holding them like this, unless you share a special connection. It'd prove how much you disdained me... Because you can't stand the fact that as long as I'm alive, as long as I can be within your grasp... you'll forever want nothing more than to reclaim just a _fraction_ of what you felt earlier."

Jim remains silent, praying to whatever was willing to listen that the detective didn't utter the next words. Suddenly, he's extremely aware of his elevated heart rate, and the heat pulsing in the very tips of his ears. 

" _Forever_ you'd know that my last thoughts were that I was right." Sherlock knows he's won, "As long as I'm alive, you stand a slim chance of proving me wrong."

There it is: the final problem. The beginning of Jim's undoing. The urge to kill Sherlock then and there is powerful, but to prolong this game, to explore a new part of himself —  that urge is stronger. Unclasping his hands, he can't help but smile. 

" _Touché, mon amour._ " Moriarty steps back, facetiously dusting off his hands. His flirtatious tone is still there, but curiosity is now evident, "What shall we do, then?" 

Sherlock hasn't dropped that stupid grin, still standing horizontal against the wall, as if Jim hadn't let go, "I'm content to let things play out." 

"Alright then." Jim unconsciously licks his lips, a gesture _not_ lost on the detective, "What does that _entail_ , exactly?" 

"Here I thought _I_ was the inexperienced one!" Sherlock steps forward, a predatory glint in his eye, "Don't tell me you've _never_  delved into the romantic side of life?" 

Blushing, Jim doesn't answer, instead focusing on the enclosing proximity of the detective. He closes his eyes, readying for the assault on his mouth he knows is coming. He's surprisingly disappointed when he feels the faintest kiss brush his cheek, "Then I won't rush it." Despite it being a chaste, sweet gesture, his face is on  _fire_ where the lips made contact.

Jim peeks just in time to see Sherlock smile, opening the door, "I'll text you."

As Sherlock left, Moriarty placed a hand to his face, tracing out the lingering buzz from Sherlock's mouth, _Oh Sherlock Holmes… you are going to be the end of me._

And that's how a very unconventional relationship began. 


	3. It's a... Date?

**Are you free this evening? -SH**

 

**What, do you want to take in dinner and a show? -JM**

 

**Don't be ridiculous. -SH**

**I'd never be so predictable, especially not with such an interesting specimen. -SH**

 

**Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. -JM**

 

**Shall I take your lack of a "no" to mean you're available? -SH**

**Could be dangerous. -SH**

 

**Does that usually work? -JM**

 

**Yes. -SH**

 

**… You have my tentative interest. -JM**

 

**You'll want an alias and your laptop. I'll text you an address. -SH**

 

Perplexed at the need for a disguise, Jim shrugs, _See you later then_. 

 

* * *

 

"Are you going to tell me what we're doing?" Jim asks, toting a messenger bag, packed to the brim with electronics. They'd met at a café near the center of town, but after getting tea and small talk, Sherlock had them walking somewhere mysterious. 

He'd settled on recycling his "Jim from I.T." disguise, though he'd changed from the more casual grey shirt to a tight-fitting black button-up, and thrown on a pair of fake glasses to give his face less recognizability.  The shroud was a tad sentimental, seeing as that's how he initially introduced himself to Sherlock, but practicality came into play as well, seeing as the detective obviously had some sort of _hacking_ job lined up. 

However, he'd be lying if he said it wasn't more about sentimentality: he had set out to prove Sherlock _wrong_ about his first impression, that "Jim from I.T." was so much more than that. _Then again, he already knows who I am… and he requisitioned my… "services…"_ Despite Sherlock's obvious interest in the man himself, Jim couldn't shake the feeling that the detective's attentions were on his work and expertise, not founded in any romantic junk. 

The detective, of course, was wearing exactly what he always wore. 

"Hmm…" Sherlock muses, "Have I told you yet that you look positively dashing?" 

"… Were you planning on saying so?"

"Considering it extensively." Sherlock pulled something out his his breast pocket, "Here we are." They'd stopped a large, eerie, abandoned-looking, three-story brick building. It was so dusty, Jim wanted to sneeze just looking at it. The cement steps they took to get up to the twin set of heavy doors were cracked, surprised this wasn't condemned by the city. _Or perhaps it is…_

But then Jim's eye catches on something amiss, "What's a neglected residence doing with a keycard reader?"

"Good!" Sherlock smiles, swiping what Jim now saw was an identification card into the slot. The light went from red to green, and the double doors creaked open. 

Stepping inside, it was like something out of science fiction: pure white. At first it was too bright, coming in from the dusk outside, it took Jim's eyes a moment to adjust. When things visually quieted down, he could see he wasn't missing much: sleek design, soundproofed, the faint buzz of electronics. No furniture, no objects in the room to speak of. 

"This is where you come in." Sherlock knocks on an ivory panel in the wall, revealing a complex circuit board, "You're going to need to scramble the cameras on the bottom three floors, including this one."

 _Bottom floors?_ Jim squints, removing the plastic lenses from his line of vision.

"Aw, I thought those were a nice touch."

"You know my eyes are perfect." He jokes, setting his computer to work at figuring out the encryption. 

"Indeed I do." 

In less than ten minutes, the security feeds freeze, beginning to playback hours of tame footage.  

"Excellent," Sherlock chirps, "We shall have about an hour before Mycroft's men notice a bug."

" _Two_ hours." Jim scolds, packing up his equipment, "I'm no amateur."

"My apologies. Elevator?" Sherlock gestures to a stretch of wall that was slightly indented. 

"Have you done this before?" Jim queries as Sherlock presses the "B3" button, the lowest level there seemed to be.

"I've _wanted_ to." He admits, "I'm familiar with the layout from spying on some of the discarded recordings, but I've never actually been in here."

"And where is 'here,' exactly?"

"Private government archives." Sherlock casts a deceptive grin, "You knew that."

"Maybe." Jim chuckles, "This is quite illegal, Sherlock. Are you sure you want to be here?" 

Sherlock shrugs, the elevator doors dinging open, "I hear when requesting someone's company, you should do things you both like to do." 

"You really aren't as _good_ as your reputation suggests." They step out into a room, an entire wall covered in television monitors, _CCTV  feeds from all around London…_ Jim's mouth hangs open a moment in awe, having wanted access to these for _ages_ , but could never quite get a hand on an official with the right credentials. 

"If there were heros, I would not be one of them." 

"You stole your brother's ID card."

"Yes." Sherlock is unapologetic, sitting in one of the chairs at the control panel, "Now… what would you like to see?" 

 

* * *

 

Precisely 115 minutes later, they get back in the elevator. "That was… informative." Jim's mind was still reeling from all he'd learned. Most importantly, how _little_ the government could actually monitor his inner workings. 

"Very." Sherlock replies as they make their way out of the building. As they make their way back to Sherlock's, they walk in silence, Jim trying to parse something out: he'd actually had _fun_ on their little excursion. Or… 

"Was this a date?" He isn't sure what he wants the answer to be. 

"Hmm… the word and action of 'date' is so _mundane_." 

"Then what is _this_?" He gestures between them emphatically, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to swipe his hand, interlacing their fingers. 

"Two people who are romantically interested in each other, spending some time together… albeit a bit unconventionally." 

"I'd say that fits the definition of a date." 

"If it makes you feel better, we could call it that." 

"I — " Jim grimaces, embarrassed that he didn't have anything to say, _Fine. Have the last word with your nonchalant nature. I bet I'd be the same if I'd ever tried anything so insipid as "romance" before…_

_But so far, Sherlock has been the only one worth it._

They walk the rest of the way without another word, Jim trying not to focus on the obnoxious pounding of his heart. 

Reaching Sherlock's doorstep, Jim stops them. He knows there's some expectation that he should come in and unwind, perhaps have a nightcap and make-out on the detective's couch. But something about it feels off, "I… I should get going." 

"Well. I'd walk you home, but I imagine you don't want me knowing where you live." Sherlock purrs, not letting go of Jim's hand. 

He nods, "Goodnight, then." 

"Hmm…" Sherlock took Jim's chin in his gentle caress, "You really do look amazing. Tonight and all others as well."

"Uhum… thank you?" They'd kissed before, and very aggressively. But this lead-up feels different, "You're not so bad yourself."

"Why thank you." Sherlock whispers, face getting progressively closer to Jim's, "That's enough small talk, don't you think?" 

The words set Jim's skin alight, buzzing with the implications of that sentiment. He then realizes just how _little_ of the words exchanged that night were superfluous — Sherlock didn't bother asking him stupid questions he'd never answer anyway (where'd he grow up, any pets, about his parents, etc). No, he only asked and said what was necessary, either to the mission, or to putting his jumping nerves at ease. 

They close the gap, a spark exploding into a supernova. Jim's forgotten his own name, and is exceedingly glad he'd already removed the plastic specs, which would otherwise be getting in the way. It's almost feral how viciously he and Sherlock kiss — hot, desperate, teeth raking across lips. It seems ridiculous that he'd been dreading this moment. 

Panting, they don't hear the door open.

"Um…" They hear someone clear their throat, "Am I interrupting something?"

 _Sherlock's live-in_ , Jim thinks, disappointedly looking at John, _Pity_. 

"Evening, Watson." The detective is beyond flustered, though really, standing in front of his door, he should've expected _someone_ to notice. 

"I'm… going to go back upstairs." John seemed even more uncomfortable, surprised that Sherlock was showing interest in another human being — from their first meeting, he had asserted his devotion to the work. _I thought he was pretty clear that he was "married to his work."_ Flummoxed, he took a step back over the threshold. 

"Weren't you going to see… uh…" Sherlock stumbles for a name, "Accountant with a parrot?"

" _Lisa_." John snaps, "And I was… but clearly there's something more important going on… so I'll see you upstairs."

The doctor closes the door, his very confused expression fixated on Jim until the last second, as if trying to place that vague familiarity. 

Sherlock turns back to Jim, "I should go deal with that." _Interesting, I never knew John would take such an interest in my personal life… positively. Especially with the "mortal enemy" angle we have going…_ It then occurs to Sherlock that Watson had no idea he was with "Moriarty." No, as far as _he_ knew, this was "Jim from I.T."

"Well… I really enjoyed breaking in to confidential government archives with you, Sherlock." Jim smiles, "Let's do it again sometime."

"Goodnight, Jim. I enjoyed our 'date.'" He winks and falls back into the door.

It was only as Sherlock disappeared from sight that the hapless criminal regained his sanity, _What. Was. That? How on Earth was I acting so…_ normal _?_ Freaked out, he makes his way home to deconstruct his evening and chastise himself for being such a lovestruck fool.


	4. The Problems with Courting A Consulting Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have I ever disappointed you? -SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!! I actually was going to end the fic on this chapter, but... well. You know me. I can't just let things go when I get an idea. So it's gonna be at least twice as long! Have some feels <3

It had been a solid week since the consultants' date, and Sherlock had dutifully kept quiet as to not scare Jim away. But today, he breaks the silence: 

 

**Thinking of you. -SH**

 

Jim stares at his mobile, _What am I supposed to say to that? What is the purpose of such a statement?_ Today he's meeting a client at a café, but said client is _late_ , something Moriarty particularly abhorred, _They will be paying at least_ double _for this injustice._ He figured he might as well respond to pass the time. 

 

**Why? -JM**

 

**Picking a cadaver for choice body parts. -SH**

 

The criminal smiles, not caring that he was sitting in public. No one knew who he was anyway, what did he care if a few faceless idiots saw the cold, detached Jim Moriarty smiling? There was at least good reason. 

 

**That's sweet of you. -JM**

 

**Do you think of me? -SH**

 

Moriarty bit his bottom lip. That was probably a rhetorical question. Sherlock knew the answer, didn't he? Possibly. Jim had done almost everything to emotionally keep his distance. Was it possible, or even probable, that the detective felt as if he were just a toy to keep the genius criminal at bay? Maybe it started with an unhealthy obsession. Maybe it still was. But… well. He was afraid it was quickly turning into more than that. 

 

**More than I'd care to admit. -JM**

 

**So you'd be amenable to a second date? -SH**

 

 _Yes. If it were anything near as stimulating and interesting as last time…_ He was about to think up a witty, hard-to-get response, but at that moment, Moriarty is approached by his client. An irritated corporate white collar that wanted promotion. At _any_ cost. "So, Mr. Wilkes… what can I do for you?" 

He drones on. Maybe thirty minutes. Jim covertly rolls his eyes. This wasn't worth pursuing, and why did he _insist_ on continuing to talk him through a droll crime when someone _else_ was being so delightfully interesting? He snuck a covert look at his mobile. 

 

**I promise it won't be boring. -SH**

 

It was bad practice to answer a text during a business meeting, but in Jim's defense, Sherlock had just said something interesting. Plus, his client was a bit of a pompous arse with a boring, predicable order. Simple, covered-up murder. Not even worth Sherlock's time if Jim wanted to set up a new game. 

 

**Tall order. -JM**

 

**Have I ever disappointed you? -SH**

 

Jim smirks despite himself — no, in twenty years, Sherlock hadn't — another bad practice in a business meeting, but his face quickly fades, refocusing, "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilkes, but you're annoying me." He hums, managing a perfect "bored" tone, "And I just got a better offer. So I'm going to have to cut this short." He stood up, glaring daggers at the rejected man to prevent him from saying a further word. 

He wanders away, seemingly aimless, even to himself. Conceivably, he could text for his driver. Go home. Slip out of his shoes. Stretch out on the sofa or the bed. Maybe catch a very small amount of sleep before someone else needs his attention. But for the moment, it seemed like _he_ needed someone's attention. 

Pocketing his phone, he made the short ten minute walk to Baker street. 

 

* * *

 

Of course he didn't knock or ring the bell, door completely unlocked, he walks lazily up the stairs. Today seemed to be a day for breaking his careful façade, as once he began ascending, the low, dulcet tones of Sherlock's violin greeted his ears, and he felt a grin tugged at his lips. _Expecting me. Prick_. 

Sighing, returning to his careful stony face, he pushes through the door, "Really is beautiful, my dear." He hums, Sherlock's back to the door. Well. The music was _also_ wonderful, but those curls, those long limbs… then as Sherlock turns around slowly, revealing that sweet smile… Jim swallows. This is _very_ bad. 

"Thank you." His low baritone answers in perfect contrast to the high notes that had come from the stringed instrument he was now setting back in its case. "Tea?" He asks absently. 

"No thank you, detective." Jim replies, still standing by the door, "I thought you were going to blow my mind with a fabulous second date?" 

Sherlock turns around, rolling his eyes, "Do forgive me, I wasn't expecting you." 

"Yes you were." 

"Mmm. Well. No. I actually just guessed when you stopped replying." He began inching close to him, "But had you not, I would've told you I was planning it for tomorrow… something _special_." He whispers slightly, causing Jim to lean in a bit in curiosity. 

"Well, then…" Jim huffs slightly, suddenly aware of how close Sherlock was, "What now?" _Kiss?_ He thought absently, wetting his lips, eyes flickering to Sherlock's. He'd been craving it since their last meeting (which had been rudely interrupted), thinking about it whenever he had the spare brain space. Sometimes even when he _couldn't_ afford to give it the thought. 

"Up to you." Sherlock cocks his head to the side, all-too-aware of Jim's thoughts at the moment. But he enjoyed the chase, "You can leave, of course. But if you stay, I'd be quite happy." 

"Umm…" Dammit. Nervous now. How was it that Sherlock could rob him of his eloquence so easily? "Tea sounds alright." He concedes, using all of his willpower to slide past Sherlock and sit down. In _his_ chair. 

Sherlock purses his lips, but makes no mention of it as he walks to the kitchen to turn the kettle on. Jim glances around; he'd never actually been _inside_ his flat before. The chaos he'd ignored in favor of Sherlock's face (the most ridiculously distracting of anything in here) suddenly hit him: it was a _mess._ Clothes everywhere, dishes, _stuff_ cluttering every open space he could see.

Jim himself kept a fastidious flat. Well, not _him_ personally, but his paid attendants. He heard Sherlock shift, lifting a tea tray in the next room, "You really need a housekeeper." Jim comments pointedly.

Scoffing, Sherlock reenters the room, placing the tray on the table in front of Jim, "Perhaps I do." He shrugs, sitting across from him, "Genius works best in organized chaos…" He cocks his head to the side thoughtfully, tenting his hands, "But where I destroy my living space, _you_ want to destroy the world." 

Hearing the words, never more so _true_ , Moriarty just had to grin, "Can't argue with that." He replies, giving a small bow of his head in appreciation, picking up a cup can taking the smallest of sips, "I imagine you know _why_ as well."

"Of course."

"Go on, then." _I know you know the answer, I just like hearing you talk… you do, too._

"Because, dear Jim…" He leans forward, picking up the saucer he'd fixed for himself, bringing it to his lips, "We cling, almost pathetically, to anything we can find to express just to smallest fraction of what's going on inside our heads at every moment…" 

"Consequently…" Jim picks up without missing a beat, "It's also why people like us as so drawn to narcotics." Sadness flashes across their eyes. But not enough to conceal the _cravings_ lurking just beneath the surface, "One never quite stops being an _addict_ , do they?" He asks in a quiet voice.

"No." Sherlock shakes his head once, "But addiction is just another distraction…"

"There are other distractions." 

"Precisely." Sherlock stands up, crossing the space between them, kneeling at Jim's feet, hands on either arm of the chair, encircling him, "And you, Jim, are my new addiction. Well…" He smirked, eyes playful, "Danger has always been my addiction." _And you are danger personified._

"I…" Jim began to protest, but leaned forward anyway, connecting their lips, feeling a familiar burn in his chest. Because Sherlock was right. Danger was their high. Chaos. Opposition, which they'd only ever truly gotten from each other. A constant push and pull, except… 

Except now there was just _pull_. Opposing forces that no longer opposed. The _work_ was still adversarial, but them, personally? The intent was different now. Affectionate. Sherlock leaned into the kiss, deepening it. Jim didn't reject it.

In fact, he lifted his hands to cup the detective's jaw lovingly. Then roughly as the _craving_ intensified. For the first time in his life, he just wanted _more_ of another person. His body was betraying him, acting, being, _feeling_ … _human_. It felt good, being rewarded with a whole host of chemicals, better than any drug he'd had the pleasure of experiencing. 

But it was all too much. The touch of their skin too warm, his heart rate too fast, blood and hands too _eager_. Jim was running on instinct, the animal he called a heart, caged inside his chest, banging against the bars. It was too uncomfortable, too unknown, for him to just let it free. Somehow, he musters up the strength to push Sherlock back, but with more force than he'd initially intended, causing the detective to stumble back. 

Before Sherlock could ask what happened, Jim exhaled roughly, chasing away some of the anxiety. He let the moment hang, then got up and dashed out the door, back to where he'd left his car, telling his driver to go back home. _Fast_. Panicking slightly, he resolved he just needed to think. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was also panicking. He didn't go after the criminal, knowing he'd made a mistake. He must've been on the floor more than ten minutes before he scrambled to his feet, the first thing he could think to do was grab his mobile. 

 

**I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry. -SH**

 

But he knew Jim wouldn't respond. Picking up his violin, Sherlock played sadly, low, languorous notes. He could wait, but he'd be anxious every second. Jim was his distraction — what does one do when their distraction runs away in fear? 


	5. Reflecting (But is it a Mistake?)

It'd been three days since he last spoke to Sherlock. 

Jim sat in his apartment. Not the one Sherlock had followed him to — that was a spare. No.  He needed to think, and to do that, he needed to be in his inner sanctum. 

Penthouse suite in a building he entirely owned. He rented out the lower floors, of course, an abandoned-yet-clean building on the edges of central London would turn some heads. And real estate was a lovely investment that helped with laundering his more illicit earnings.

But pondering his copious success, no matter how sweet it was to be king, wasn't on the agenda. He laid on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, the smooth, off-white texture offering nothing in the way of distraction.

What was he supposed to do? 

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. 

The name repeats, trying to get his mind back on track, but still nothing. Infatuated with that stupid, intrusive virus. Yes. This feeling was nothing short of viral, almost violating. He didn't allow these feelings into his body, they just snuck in and took over. Before he even had the chance to keep them in check. Meaning… 

Well, his freak-out was mostly about how off-balance he'd been thrown. Caught up in the moment, unable to have perfect control of his mind or body, all of his precious mental faculties made fuzzy. 

Closing his eyes, he could find no peace, not since he'd stopped answering Sherlock's texts.  He'd memorized them all, flashing over the inside of his eyelids:

 

**I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry. -SH**

 

**My date idea involves art. -SH**

 

**And a stodgy museum owner who doesn't respect the integrity of masters' works. -SH**

 

**When you're ready. -SH**

 

**Unless you won't ever be. That's fine too. -SH**

 

The last text sounded resigned. And he hadn't texted for almost a full day, meaning the do-gooder wouldn't text him again. Jim should be happy, he was out of his life. Yet… why was he so conflicted? Anyone else would be easy to cut from his life, or have killed without remorse. 

But Sherlock made him feel. Feel funny, strange, happy, glowing, all sorts of things he'd only really gotten when a really good plan was executed. He loved talking to the man. A mind as clever and endlessly fascinating as his own. 

And that… that was something special. Something he'd never encountered before. Could be worth all that confusion. He knew that, but it was a strange reality to accept. One that he'd never encountered before, which lead to his scare and subsequent running off. 

Still, he couldn't help but think back on that evening they'd met face-to-face. How they were pulled together from across the pool. How the detective so easily drew him into that kiss, into his spell. And that date… Christ. Wonderful, thoughtful, catering to Jim's interests to make sure he enjoyed himself. 

Finally, he had to admit exactly what he only said jokingly: they were perfect for each other.

So it was decided. He had to make up with him, as Sherlock was the only person he could see himself being with. For any length of time, romantic or otherwise. Sure, he'd had employees for longer, but he'd barely spoken to most of them in person (he had a terrific stand-in that acted as such a delightful puppet).

Picking up his phone, scrolling through the ignored texts, he knew he owed Sherlock an explanation. An apology, if he could muster one (unlikely, definitely not in his nature). But all he managed to text was: 

 

**Next week. -JM**

 

 ****Sherlock would understand. It was all okay between them, no hard feelings, no lingering resentment… as long as the detective didn't have any for his abruptness. But there was a mutual comprehension between them — that was as much exposition as he needed. An unspoken "it won't happen again, please forgive me" that Jim was too proud to confess. And his darling's reply confirmed everything he'd assessed:

 

**See you at seven. -SH**

 

Jim smirked — he could feel good about this again. He really did want that second date.


	6. Courting a Consulting Criminal, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or:
> 
> "In Which Jim and Sherlock Steal a Painting"

**Present**

 

The detective was, if nothing else, brilliant with a lock pick. Not that the geniuses at the security company the Tate Gallery managers hired could ever _hope_ to keep out the rebellious civil servant, no matter the cost or smarts.

It took less than three minutes for Sherlock to get past the three locks — one of which was a deadbolt — gaining he and Jim safe access. He shoved the picks back into a large backpack he had slung carelessly over his left shoulder, pushing into the door. 

Sherlock was wearing his normal clothes, minus the coat, as hardly anyone recognized him without it (and that sinfully silly hat). They were pretending as if this were some ordinary day. Any passerby might not notice something awry, if all went well. 

The gallery itself was closed for maintenance, and the crew had gone home for the day about an hour ago. The sun had set, leaving them only with the remaining embers of dusk. Enough to give them some form of maneuvering, but also not enough to be easily seen. 

Inside, most of the paintings were covered in plastic, as well as some of the furniture — so ceiling particles wouldn't get all over everything during the modifications. Jim's thoughts strayed as he looked at what could loosely be described as an art-morgue,  _Quite drab. Pity, I like this place when it's open…_   

"We can talk, you know." Sherlock gave a low chuckle, picking up on the look Jim gave, "But not too loud. Precaution." 

"Alright…" Jim finally braved a whisper, "So, what's in the backpack?"

"How did I _know_ you would ask that?"

 

* * *

 

**Three Hours Previous**

 

The text is somewhat reminiscent of the first invitation. Simple, yet asking for something illegal: 

 

**Tonight. Tate Gallery. I need you to disable the security cameras about ten minutes before we meet up. -SH**

 

Sherlock certainly _wasn't_ the perfect honey that everyone portrayed him to be. And this gave Jim _no_ shortage of glee. He'd initially thought of him as a goody-two shoes with _compromised_ morals. But no. He hardly had morals at all. 

 

**More feed scrambling? Careful, honey, I might begin to suspect you're just using me for my hacking ability. -JM**

 

**When the "using" is mutual, is it really that bad? -SH**

 

**Suppose not. It'll be done. -JM**

 

**Thank you. -SH**

**Besides. Don't sell yourself short. There are thousands upon thousands of more interesting and astounding things about you than your technical know-how. -SH**

 

**Throwing flattery in after a mild insult may fool *some* people, darling, but not me. -JM**

 

**Who said anything about fooling? -SH**

 

Despite still being mildly irked, Jim can't help but grin. How did Sherlock do that? Embarrassing. Luckily, no one was around to witness it. _Well_ , he thinks, looking at his surroundings, at least four dead bodies, _No one alive._

 

**You'll also want to bring a car — either you drive, or a getaway driver, or a cabbie who won't ask questions. -SH**

 

**Interesting. Because we're stealing a painting? -JM**

 

Obviously. But confirmation seemed oh so necessary. If he could get the "good" detective to admit he was _bad_ …

 

**Yes. But don't point out the obvious. Eyes everywhere. -SH**

 

**Yes, darling. All of them are mine. -JM**

 

Close enough, anyway. 

 

**Delightful. I'll be the one wearing black. -SH**

 

**Looking forward to it. -JM**

 

* * *

 

Sherlock got to a table — most likely set-up so security could check bags. Hilarious, really, what it'd been re-appropriated for — unzipped the bag, and gingerly poured out the contents, inch by inch.

"What've we got here?" Jim asks, trying with all his might to hide the curiosity. 

"Forgery. Mid-level, but that buffoon they hired will never know the difference." 

" _The Burning of the Houses of Parliament?_ " The smaller man asked — he _knew_ what it was, of course — the slight jaunt of a question giving Sherlock something to answer to, rather than it just be a showy statement.

"Lovely Turner." It was confirmation, nothing more. Sherlock picked up a small flashlight that'd come out of the pack, turning it on. It was pretty dim, though it had to be for such a covert operation. He shined it on the table, allowing Jim a better look at the fake painting, though he'd already moved on — what use had he for a barely-passable impostor? 

"What's _that_ for?" Jim asks, pointing at what seemed to be a large sheet of metal. He arranged all sorts of grand heists before, but he'd never actually done the legwork for them. Never learned the finer details. 

"There's a sensor behind the paintings." Sherlock explains with relative ease, words flowing off comfortably, as if the procedure and materials were from a college lecture he'd given hundreds of times, "I'll slip this between the two, momentarily confusing the security scanner. While I'm doing so, you take the real thing off the wall and replace it with the fake." 

"You do this a lot, don't you?"

"Far more than I should have to."

" _Have_ to?"

"I am a lover of _art_." He explains, voice the deadliest of venoms, as if it were obvious. As if _everyone_ should feel as passionately, "And so are you. But this gallery recently came under a poor choice of management."

"Exactly how demonic are we talking?" 

"He's having this one _restored_." Sherlock grumbles, then looks over at Jim, "Alright. I'm ready when you are." 

"Oooh." Jim's amused, dulcet tones hit Sherlock's ear, as if he'd just understood something, hands on either side of the real painting's frame, " _This_ is how you caught on to that painting being a fake so easily. Not, like you would have the Yard believe, because you deduced it all from a washed-up corpse of an amateur astronomer."

"Something like that…" He smirks, shoving the metal sheet between the painting and the wall, "Except I _did_ need that dead security guard to tip me off on the 'what' and 'where.'"

It was quick; Jim lifted the delicate frame, leaning it against the wall as he grabbed the fake. Sherlock was good, the moment the painting was set, the metal was pulled away. Almost like the table-full-of-dishes trick. Except something would, in fact, be quite wrong. Not that anyone would notice. 

"You're really not an angel at all, are you?" Jim is in total awe: the man he had once appreciated for his lawfulness — an idle appreciation for a two-dimensional force of good — he could now see for his many different facets. As if breaking into the archives wasn't enough. But this wasn't about sibling rivalry, or appealing to Jim: this was entirely Sherlock's project. What _he_ did in his free time, and could give the criminal a bit more of a sense of who this man actually was. 

"It's just a job." The detective shrugs, _the perfect answer_ , "What I do in my private life is hardly anyone's business."

"Like dating the most wanted crime lord in all of London?"

"Just London?" Sherlock quipped, sounding almost bemused, "What did I say about selling yourself short?"

"Oh, what a charmer." But Jim, for once, isn't being sarcastic. 

"Alright, time to head out." Sherlock whispers in praise — they'd done well. He swept over the table, making sure nothing would be left behind, checking the now-hanging painting for levelness. Finally, as if it were the true crime of the evening, the detective sheathed the painting in the bag. _Not meant to be caged up, poor thing… rest assured, you will have a much better home soon._

Seemed odd he would get sentimental over an inanimate piece of artwork, and very few people, but it'd survived decades upon decades. It deserved a little more respect than a placemat. 

Once everything was in order, Jim returned to the previous conversation, "What's wrong with _that_ , exactly?" Restoration always seemed like a useful tool, if you had a talented artist. Not many jobs, or much recognition, for the new generation of potential Turners, unfortunately. _Much less to fence off for them… then again, that lack is what usually persuades them to do "replicas" for me._

Sherlock didn't miss a beat, as if finely tuned into the criminal's mind, "It's a _watercolor_ painting." He scowls, but upon feeling the hesitation in the air, elaborated, "You don't _restore_ watercolors. It's done _once_ , and correctly, and that is all you get."

"I see…" Jim replies, if only to fill the silence, still not entirely convinced. Art was a cultural heritage, why not ensure the next generation could enjoy it as well? 

"That's the point of it as a medium. A sense of finality and perfection. Little to no mistakes, and while it takes a great deal of time to fade, once it does, it's over." Did it sound snobby? A bit. But that didn't change how he felt, "Restorations are meant to _revitalize_ the old works… not destroy their integrity." That's the final word on it. Besides, Jim wasn't about to have an ideological debate in the middle of the building they'd just broken into and subsequently robbed. 

That could wait until they got back to the car.

"Well, now we have a near-priceless painting…" Jim considers, quirking a brow as they slid it into the back seat, "What are you going to do with it?"

"I have a collector I usually go to, he's trustworthy in that he has his own line of reputable restorers, and won't bother trying to sell to _idiots_ …" Sherlock says, securing the bag with a seatbelt so it wouldn't slam around during transit, "But I had something special in mind for this one."

"And what would that be?" He asks as he gently slams the door.

"The only thing one _can_ do with such a valuable bauble…" Sherlock turns to him, placing his hand over Jim's, still over the handle. Eyes burning, passionate, "You keep it."

If that wasn't a heartfelt confession of love, Jim didn't know what was. Why? Simply put: people didn't do "nice" things for Jim. They gave him things, or did favors because they were _afraid_ of him, or owed him, or in payment. Never of their own, _selfless_ volition. 

Alright, perhaps from Sherlock's end it might've been a _little_ about getting returning affection, but Jim figured millions of dollars was an awful lot to pay for a kiss. Even more than that (which he wasn't yet sure he was willing to give) still seemed dwarfed by this gesture.

"It's…" _A lot. What would I even do with a painting like this? Hang it on my wall? I suppose, I do have one or two originals, but not a Turner… wait! Oh._ The thought finally occurred to him — the title of the painting. _The Burning of the Houses of Parliament._ _This entire excursion…_ Sherlock had meant it as a gift all along, a testament to both of their anarchist holdings, "Are you sure I won't destroy its integrity?" He asks in wonderment, as if it were his first Christmas.

Sherlock only smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a month to get out! It was a long chapter, and I had to learn about thieving artwork, when the best time would be, which painting they'd take, how to bypass security measures, and where _The Burning of the Houses of Parliament_ is being housed... hopefully Google hasn't alerted anyone about "how to steal a painting" coming up in my search history... *sweats nervously*


	7. Welcome Home, But Don't Bring the Woman

Weeks passed. At this point, one might consider it customary in the consultants' relationship to ignore each other for a while after a date (only when it came to texting — work was still _very_ much an exercise in entertaining each other). Moriarty arranged for his new treasure to be transported to a safe holding place, then situated at his house. He returned to mischief, Sherlock returned totrying to thwart him, to varying degrees of success. 

Jim tosses Sherlock cases — daylight robbery, mass identity theft, frustrating computer viruses of unknown origin — he takes time to pick each out, pretending it isn't out of affection. Some of it isn't, still just for the pleasure of watching the detective's masterful work. But at the heart of it all, is the desire to see that lovely smile, even if just from fuzzy video feeds. 

However, it wasn't all perfect, pleasant viewing. Irene Adler. Moriarty mentally slaps himself; why does this _hurt_ so much? _He'd_ been the one to set-up this whole affair. To have her flutter about, flouting fake feelings, trying to get the perfectly-controlled-while-working detective to break that pesky focus.

Jim, on a conscious level, knew it was the most expedient course of action — an attack Sherlock probably hadn't experienced before. It was for the _best_. For the _money,_ for the _chaos_. For the annoyance of Mycroft-fecking-Holmes! But underneath that, boiling, frothing, hissing to the surface, was _discomfort_ and _fury_ at the sight of Sherlock, checking out her exposed body.

Or "taking her pulse."

Obsessing over her death. Actually _mourning_. 

Or that stupid, nervous look when she came back. That was reserved for _Jim_ , dammit. 

The pleasure the criminal got from seeing the Iceman squirm when Moriarty revealed the knowledge of his plans was negligible next to the moment of serenity he felt when Sherlock _finally_ brushed her off. The brilliant detective won. The sentimental fool (that was _not_ Jim) lost. That was it. 

At least, it should've been. 

Oh, on the surface, Sherlock seemed perfectly detached, willing to be callous, cold, and going to leave that cursed woman to the wolves for her failures. Jim was even going to text his wayward boyfriend, as the _weeks_ , without even realizing it, had progressed into _months_. 

And then — oh, and _then_ … _Then_ Sherlock actually _snuck out of the country to go rescue her._ Jim didn't _see_ the rescue, as Sherlock had done such a wonderful job of eluding his moles, but the criminal just _knew_. 

The second the prodigal detective returned to London, Moriarty expected some sort of attempt at connection. Which he would've _ignored_ , trying his damnedest to enjoy a glass of _Sassicaia_ , vintage copy of _The History of the Peloponnesian War_ open in his lap. The roaring fire was nice, silk pajamas added to the self-pampering. But it'd been _days_ , and that useless jerk had yet to make any attempt. He set the glass down on the end table hard, jostling the contents, tiny droplets hitting his palm as he grabbed his mobile in the same gesture. 

Only mildly seething, Jim shot off a text in anger:

 

**How was Karachi? -JM**

 

**A bit warm for my taste. -SH**

 

**Is that all? -JM**

 

**I went to save her from beheading, nothing more. -SH**

 

**Isn't that so kind. Such a boy scout. -JM**

 

**Was that a problem? -SH**

 

**Of course not. Just seemed out of character for you to put forth such an effort for someone so… -JM**

**Unworthy. -JM**

 

**Unworthy? She's wonderfully clever, even if she fell for her chemical defect. -SH**

**Many people do, doesn't make her any less impressive. -SH**

 

 ****Fifteen minutes without a reply. _Nearly unheard of, unless Jim is in a meeting…_ but it was more than that. Immediately texting after Sherlock's little detour? Might've been in a meeting, might not. But the point was:

 

**Are you jealous? -SH**

 

 ****Whimsical attitude about his work or not, Sherlock knew Jim didn't like interrupting his "acquisitions." He'd been watching, and he _didn't_ like what he saw. 

 

**I resent that accusation. -JM**

 

**You aren't refuting it either. -SH**

 

**I've nothing to be jealous of. -JM**

 

**I know that. But do you really *know*? -SH**

 

**What is that supposed to mean? -JM**

 

**I've often chastised you for belittling yourself, or not seeing all that you have to offer. -SH**

 

**That hardly factors in. -JM**

 

**No? -SH**

**If you insist. But I shouldn't have to tell you that nothing happened. -SH**

 

**I didn't ask. Nor was I curious. -JM**

 

**Yes you were. -SH**

 

 **** _Fuck you_. Jim thinks, going so far as to type out the text. Deleting it, he thinks of something less incriminating to say.

 

**No, I wasn't.**

 

 ****No — delete. What was this? Primary school?

 

**We never discussed boundaries. Makes sense. She isn't unattractive.**

 

What? That was pathetic. _No_.

 

**Invite me next**

 

Jim didn't even need to finish that one. Sip of wine, but it didn't make it any better. 

Finding something dignified to retort was clearly a losing battle, and he'd already spent twenty minutes of his precious time just on _one_ text. He was supposed to be better than that, and even if his feelings weren't entirely resolved, he settled for changing the subject. 

 

**The new Turner looks good over my fireplace. -JM**

 

**Perfectly appropriate. Curious, do the flames look better in the shadows of a real fire? -SH**

 

**I think so. -JM**

 

Jim deliberates sending the next text — to play coy, to flirt again? He hadn't really done so since he found out Sherlock _really_ had feelings for him. Counter-intuitive, but the _real deal_ made him nervous. More unbelievably, _scared_! Even if "Moriarty" wasn't afraid of anything, Sherlock had been relentless at getting to the "Jim" parts of him. Ones he'd long thought were devoured…

And _Jim_ turned out to be _timid_ , especially in the face of romance. Inexperienced in something that he was finally _interested_ in. He closes his eyes, typing out the message, hitting "send" without looking, hoping it might ease his nerves. 

It doesn't: 

 

**Then again, how would I know? I'm nowhere near the art critic you are. -JM**

 

It's a subtle invitation, but regardless of his personal advancements, Jim still can't be as forward as Sherlock, unless in jest. _Perhaps sometime I should try being sarcastic over text… and let him interpret it as he likes…_

The prospect of luring Sherlock over is vigorous. _Just to scold him in person._ It's mostly a lie and the criminal knows it, _And I don't want to go_ there _because that would mean getting up, changing my clothes, making safe travel arrangements, et cetera, et cetera. It's far less hassle. Besides, if I were to_ kill _him on accident, it'd be much easier to cover up…_ all the supplies were here. There'd be no crime scene. And Sherlock would probably make sure no one knew where he was going… 

But he doesn't want his precious _boyfriend_ (he'd never _not_ scoff at that word) dead. _He's quite entertaining alive…_ The lies he tells himself get closer to the truth, even if he already knows, _My only equal. My accomplice, in some cases. And this "crush" isn't the worst feeling._

As the mobile buzzes in his hand, Jim's stomach jumps. _Dangerous thought. Too easily startled at just the suggestion. Maybe not yet._

 

**Perhaps I could come by and see it? Judge for myself. -SH**

 

**I'd like that. -JM**

**Feel special. No one else has ever been to my "real" flat. -JM**

 

**Real? -SH**

 

**One I might call home. -JM**

 

**Interesting. Address? -SH**

 

**You'll be going to Heathrow first. -JM**

 

**… Dublin? -SH**

 

**Bingo. -JM**

 

**If I take the next available plane…? -SH**

 

**Better hurry, leaves in forty. -JM**

 

* * *

 

 

 ****The flight was mercifully short, but to Sherlock, minutes felt like hours away from Jim. Eighty minutes in the air was an eternity. It didn't usually feel like that — time without him was almost necessary to keep up mysterious appearances. Anticipation, however, wasn't something Sherlock was accustomed to. Impatient by nature, he always got what he wanted, almost immediately. Stuck on the plane, waiting for the attendants to open the forward doors, he was left to stew in his more philosophical thoughts.

Jim was something to wait for. Something Sherlock _had_ been waiting for, almost his whole life. He'd dallied away his time with distractions, but Jim was, and is, the best of all distractions. But "distraction" isn't the right word — it implies a certain level of disinterest. No. Jim Moriarty _occupied_ nearly his every thought, and that wasn't just for love. _Fascination! Enchanting rule. Beguilingly charming._ Oh yes, he felt _love_ , but in ways that weren't purely romantic; intellectual appreciation made itself known. Devious devotion to Jim's work and eye for detail. 

However, there was something simultaneously sobering and exciting about falling for someone based on their ferocity and intimidating nature, and finding comfort in their soft, emotional splendor. 

Sherlock felt his mobile buzz, checking it with a smirk:

 

**We can't be seen together, obviously, so my valet will be picking you up. -JM**

 

Unfortunate, that. But such was the price of being intimate with the "enemy." He went to baggage claim, grabbing the small knapsack he'd packed for three days — good to be prepared, even if, with Jim's suggested fury, he wasn't sure this would even last the night. 

As he slung the bag over his shoulder, he was plucked out of the small crowd by a man in a tux — _of course Jim would have his servants in fancy attire. Silly me for being surprised._ Light brown hair, 5'10, nothing extraordinary about him. Sherlock was lead outside, stifling a laugh as he saw the car — a silver Honda Civic seemed inappropriate for the driver's attire, but Moriarty had proven time and time again he couldn't be predicted.

 

* * *

 

Jim doesn't get up, even as he hears the front door open. Comfortable where he is, he's resumed attempts at reading and luxuriating. But footsteps approach, he tenses, and the slight crackle in his ears tell him someone is standing in the doorway behind him.

"Good evening, detective." He hums, shutting the book lightly, bringing the glass to his lips, "Haven't seen you in _ages_."

"Far too long." Sherlock's honeyed baritone answers, the _thunk_ of his bag hitting the floor sounding as he took long strides around the sofa, immediately turning to Jim, getting on his knees, face slightly lower than Jim's, looking up at him, "Let's not do that again." He smirks, a dimming of rouge across his visage, "I missed you." 

Jim forces a frown, _hard_ , but only manages a neutral expression, "… thought you were here to gawk at the artwork?"

"I'm doing so now." Sherlock trills softly, fingers playing with the midnight blue silk, "Lavish nightwear, I must say, but I'm not surprised. Suits you." 

"Oh, aren't _you_ clever?" Jim has to roll his eyes at that one.

"Sorry, as I've mentioned, it's been _far_ too long…" He reaches up a hand, cupping Jim's warm face, swiping his thumb over a smooth cheekbone, "I tend to forget the effect you have on me." The fire had something to do with it as well, everything looking an iota more magical in flickering light. 

It was more of an effort to roll his eyes that time — Jim also forgot how Sherlock managed to so breezily take an egg beater to his thoughts, garbled by his mere presence. He ducks out of the palm on his face, "Would you like to sit?" He side-glances the cushion next to him, "There's also wine."

"Perhaps later." Sherlock lifts himself onto the sofa, eyes finally wandering over to the fireplace, " _Definitely_ much better over actual fire…" 

"Wonder if that was the original intention?"

" _Water_ color over fire?" Sherlock grins, "It's certainly an interesting idea."

Jim knits his brow together, unsure if the detective is _mocking_ him, reinforcing the idea that hardly anyone was genuine with him. But Sherlock was, as far as he could tell. "So. Karachi." He states, accusation-free.

"Yes?" Sherlock asks, eyes slowly tearing away from the masterpiece, "I told you. Nothing happened." 

"Not 'nothing,' Sherlock." He frowns, "Pakistan isn't exactly in your backyard. It took effort to get over there. Even _more_ to throw off your brother's intelligence… limited as that may be."

It earns Jim a chuckle, before Sherlock returns to his natural seriousness, "Intelligence is a _rare_ quality in this world." He nods toward the painting, "As rare and special as art — I'd be willing to bet my life on that." A hand ran lovingly through wavy hair, "The Woman has a gift. Whether she uses it for misbehavior or lawfulness is none of my concern: I just want it _preserved_. Nothing more ominous than that." 

Jim doesn't want to believe that. It sounds too clean, too pretty, too outside the norm. If Sherlock were anyone else, Moriarty would know with perfect assurance that it was a sex-thing. And the detective had more than proven he wasn't immune to _that_ side of temptation; it was what began their little affair.

"I'd do it for you." Sherlock adds, seeing the sway in Jim's features, hoping to tip the scale, "As many times as you got into a bind. I'd be there."

Moriarty prided himself on knowing when he was being lied to. And he wasn't. No, despite the doubt, the _desire_ for doubt, to have _any_ reason at all to dissolve Sherlock's tissues in a tub of acid, he comes up with nothing. He sips at his wine, just to give himself a moment, something to do while he re-grouped. 

Tilting his head to the side, setting the glass down, Jim just gives a look, conveying the simplest of acceptances: _alright_. An apology for his mistrust might've been nice, but he was nowhere near that repentant. 

"Alright." Sherlock kisses Jim's forehead, pulling the word directly out of his brain, "What shall we do now?"

"Ah…" Jim hadn't really planned for that. Hadn't planned for _any_ of this at all, beyond an indignant verbal beat-down and threats made against everyone's life. Which wasn't happening. "As I've said, I don't really have people over…" He looks around, "I could give you a tour of the house. Or just show you to my library." Thucydides sat, largely ignored, on the table, "I apologize in advance for not being as adventurous as you, but this _is_ my home city, and I'd rather not go marauding." 

"Completely understandable." Even if London was also Sherlock's "home turf," it was large enough to have pockets of alien space. Besides, _there_ , he had a brother to annoy. Here, there was just Jim. Lovely, brilliant, addictive Jim, "I think I'd rather stay here…" Sherlock purrs in Jim's ear, "You've got a book." He twists, rolling so that he's laying across the length of the couch, head in Jim's lap, "Either read to me, or tell me about what you've gotten through so far."

"Cheeky." Jim raises an eyebrow, "And a novel idea. For me, at least." 

"Expand your horizons." Sherlock teases, half-expecting to be shoved off. 

But as Jim tents his hands, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, Sherlock stays, "It's not terribly interesting… more like an ancient textbook than what most would consider a story."

"I read many textbooks." Sherlock says, closing his eyes, nuzzling his face slightly into Jim's thigh, "Whether or not it's interesting by its own merit, you should just talk."

"Why?"

"Your voice. It's magical." He gives a noncommittal shoulder gesture to the fire, "The heat is nice. I'm in your house. In your lap. This is a singular situation, and I'd like to bask in it." 

Singular. Unique. Idiosyncratic. _Sui generis._ All phrases used to define their entire relationship, not just one slice of it. Jim, dazzled by the notion, complies, rattling off about inconsistencies in the text, Sherlock giving some input. 

For hours and hours, it felt natural, as conversations in Jim's world never were. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit plot-light, but it sets up and leads directly into the next, which gets feelings-heavy. Be warned!


	8. End of Courtship, Beginning of Danger

As the fire began to die down, Jim realized they weren't talking about Thucydides. In fact, after a rather _sexually charged_ discussion on the validity of Herodotus (which _neither_ of them was defending, so really, how did this happen?), riding off the energy, they ended up in a fierce kiss. 

A battle of teeth and tongues, one Jim didn't usually fight. 

The positioning was a bit awkward, Jim's head ducked down, Sherlock's torso curled upward. Hands skittered around, Sherlock using Jim to support himself. It was lovely — shocking in all the right ways, skin an icy hot sheen, but boiling underneath. Ungraceful, too big on the inside, a biscuit only half-cooked, expanding with too rigid of boundaries…

Away. Away. Jim pushes back, sinking into the cushion. Probably for the best, deprived of proper oxygen for more than fifteen minutes, they're both red in the face.

Panting. Eyes staring, raking across each other's shadow-cast faces. The question of "what now?" rushes through Jim's mind, but a real answer might involve _talking_ about things, and this wasn't something he didn't want collaboration on. 

"I… should go to bed."

"Alright." Sherlock nods, smirking lightly, "Guest room?" He asks, tilting his head to the side, a squirm in Jim's lap.

Wasn't _that_ the question? Jim certainly felt it with every one of his thirty-three years, "I have one, yes." He vocalizes awkwardly, trying too hard to shrug it off. "But my bed's a lot nicer." _Really, Jim? You make a living off being eloquent, and the best explanation I could find was that my bed was that my mattress is fancy? Not that it isn't true, but…_

Sherlock smirks, eyebrows raised in legitimate surprise. He'd been invited over, and packed a bag, but he still hadn't _expected_ … well, he still shouldn't expect anything. A quick peck on the lips, and the detective hops off his lap, batting off his slacks and offering Jim a hand. Not necessary, but he takes it anyway, shaking hand in Sherlock's sturdy.

"Upstairs?" Sherlock asks. Oh, right. Jim was getting distracted, and shouldn't expect to be lead around in his own house. He walks, the weight of Sherlock's body trailing behind him nothing more than a wisp, bunched up with information. 

Each step increases the pit in his stomach that he didn't even know was there. Was this _dread_ he felt? On the cusp of the unknown, with someone he trusted (at least as much as he could trust someone), it shouldn't be this big of a deal. Heart in his throat, his foot crossed the threshold of his bedroom all too quickly. 

Jim swallows, saliva thick in his trachea, turning around slowly. That look. _That_ look. Sherlock's eyes smolder, betraying just how much he _didn't_ feel what Jim was at this very moment.  The line of anxiety blurred into Sherlock's body, but transformed within the confines into pure lust. Alchemy of emotions, sciences just as wooly as the other. 

Long, slender fingers push Jim backward. Careful, measured steps, evolving into a trip onto the bed, plush comforter absorbing most of the shock. Sherlock was bent over him, not touching, allowing Jim to wriggle up the mattress, head nested in the many pillows. 

The detective crawls over him, meeting Jim's eyes. In the dark, it's hard to see the hesitation. It's also difficult to see the kiss coming, or stop it. Lips. Gentle, just the right amount of moisture. Physically, it felt good, wonderful… 

But there was a chasm between body and mind. As if Jim were outside his body, just watching what was happening to someone else. Someone who wasn't enjoying it that much. 

"Sherlock — " It's a plea, but the tone of urgency and (what was most certainly _not_ ) fear is lost in a gasp. Jim doesn't move to stop him, or even stop kissing him. But he doesn't want much more than this. In fact, he'd be far more comfortable if they took a step back. Or stopped for the evening. 

" _Sherlock_ — " A whimper. _No_. Jim Moriarty. Didn't. Whimper. 

Regardless of what consulting criminals did and did not do, Sherlock withdrew, an instinctive flinch away from absent consent. His weight leaves Jim's body, shifting onto the mattress. Arousal is difficult to maintain when not mutual — when _abhorred._

 _God, please don't say it._ Jim's breathing is ragged, a desperate attempt to reclaim control. He _wasn't_ going to cry, sniffle, curl up. Protecting himself, acting weak… it'd be as if sex were a big deal. It wasn't. It _wasn't_. _Leave if you want. End our relationship. I'll run away and we'll never see each other again._ The idea hurts — he really does care for Sherlock, and had become more and more captivated by his company, but there are some things he had to stick to. _Just please don't say it._

"Let's get some sleep." Sherlock's melodious baritone, completely soft, shoots through the tense silence. There's a good six inches of sheets between he and Jim, and the detective makes no move to close that gap, turning away from Jim to face the wall. 

Innately, through the crystal threads of infinite probability and what little acquaintance he's had with this side of his boyfriend, Sherlock knows Jim wants to pretend things are fine. In most cases, he'd have left to sleep on the sofa, or even return to London, but that would make this into more of an issue than it needed to be. To give him a moment of privacy would be a moment he had an excuse to let his hardened exterior fall and weep — and that was the last thing either of them wanted. 

Yet, Sherlock remains. And Jim didn't want him gone. That was weird, "Look, I'm not going to apologize or anything, but — "

"Goodnight, Jim." Sherlock interrupts what was most certainly going to _sound_ like an apology, tone still silky, sliding an arm over his torso, "Sleep well."

No need to explain himself, it seemed. "Uh- goodnight, Sherlock." Before he closes his eyes, the detective plants a tender kiss on his lips. Jim squirms to his side, fitted against his boyfriend's front, not thinking very much at all.

In that moment, Sherlock's breath tickling the back of his neck, he realizes how comfortable he is. Maybe not with sex (he's unsure if he _ever_ will be, with anyone, but he'd contemplate that later), but with this relationship. With Sherlock. How _Sherlock_ was the only one who ever understood him, and how lonely he'd been his entire life. Being a consulting criminal solitary by necessity, but Jim acknowledged he'd always been a loner. _I honestly didn't notice until someone showed me an alternative… I think… I think…_ His eyes widen, letting more and more of the darkness in, _I think I could stay with him for years… forever…_ Whatever Sherlock was doing to him, it was making him want _ordinary_ things… and he _didn't_ find the idea repulsive. 

But with this realization, Jim knows it's over. Men like him, firmly on the side of the demons, a demon himself, didn't find _forever_ mates; didn't live long, fulfilled lives; didn't get happy endings. Revulsion was curiously missing, and that wasn't okay. How could he be a consulting criminal if he was a giggling, giddy mess of a _human_? The end was steaming toward them, on a path that couldn't diverge. 

The only choices presented were to let it come, or to preempt it, winning and losing on his own terms. 

And Jim wasn't a man who liked giving up control. _However…_ He posits, the brush of Sherlock's lips against his neck momentarily distracting, _It might not be the worst thing in the world to put it off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh sorry for not being more graphic — I really am trying to keep this series mostly in the G through T range! Things may or may not happen in the future, depending on how Jim muse feels.


	9. Arts and Crafts

Regardless of the lack of sex, it's clear that a new step had been taken. 

Tuesday afternoon, some weeks after their little rendezvous, Jim is on the sofa, sinking into the cushion, trying to melt away. The laptop perched on his legs is pissing him off — emails pinging one after the other from a disgruntled client. The same one. About a job that was scheduled for _tomorrow._ Hadn't even been botched yet, and the young senator was getting cold feet. 

The criminal organizer really shouldn't be responding, but the emails only increased upon ignoring. He ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the strands, close to ripping them out by the roots. 

The lovely tresses are saved by quick, clumsy raps at the door. Not with knuckles — the blunt sounds were from an elbow or shoulder. Meaning someone at his doorstep had their hands full. Jim slowly picks himself up, considering for a moment that he might fish his gun out of the sofa. But no, if it was someone who _really_ wanted him dead, they'd have broken down the door. 

Through the peephole, Sherlock is grinning madly, arms stuffed with various boxes, poorly taped up. 

"You smiling like that is never a good sign." Jim calls through the wooden barrier, leaning against it lovingly, smiling to himself. 

"Well, probably not, but you should let me in anyway to explain my madness." It's a muffled shout, but still manages to carry the nuance of Sherlock's charm. 

Point. Jim sighs, unlocking the door with a flick of his wrist. Sherlock ambles in, boxes balanced precariously, "Might I see your dining room table?" 

"What makes you so sure I have one?"

"Well, I waited for a day I knew you'd be at one of your larger flats. This one _has_ a dining room, and your fine taste practically demands that you're completely stocked with the necessary furniture."

Pause. Damn him. "Down the hall, room to the right of the kitchen."

"Excellent." Sherlock hums in approval, following the trail giving to him. Jim hears a distant, "Oh, _superb_. It's glass." 

Entering the large room, antique chandelier hanging from the ceiling, pointing down to the large, ovular glass table beneath it, Sherlock unloading his boxes, "Glad to have been useful." 

"You've yet to have your greatest use." 

"Oh?"

"I came to ask a favor." He presses a finger to Jim's shoulder, "Your help. In an experiment."

"I'm not really the experimenting type." 

"Don't fret, you don't need to do anything but lie back."

"On the table?"

"Obviously."

"Why?"

Sherlock smirks knowingly, as if he'd been waiting for that question, "There has been an exhibit recently donated to the archeological studies department. Mycroft's men were tasked with authentication before the remains were released…" He scoffs, "But lo and behold, those idiots are stumped, so it's been dropped on my shoulders. However, lucky for them, I actually found the problem interesting."

"The problem?" Jim furrows his brow, getting close to try and discern the contents of the boxes, "What was the donation?" 

With a flourish, Sherlock threw out the linen onto the table, "A mummy." 

"And you…" The shorter man starts backing away, "Want me to be your dummy?"

" _Mummy_."

"You know what I meant!"

"I did. But regardless, I'd like you to place yourself over the sheets." He smooths out the bolts of fabric, forming the rough shape of a human body.

"Are these at least authentic?" Jim asks, running his fingers over the cloth — felt coarse enough to be somewhat aged. 

"I spared no expense of my brother's funding." 

Well… Jim could only muster so much indignation when sticking it to "the man." He nods, "You sure you know what you're doing?"

"I've read every certified textbook on the subject, watched a few demonstrations on Youtube."

"Because _that's_ a reputable source." Jim mutters, but carefully places a knee on the table, as if doubting it'd support his weight. 

"Wait!" Sherlock lurches forward, grabbing Jim's wrist and jerking him away from the table.

" _What?_ Is there a proper way I need to get on it?"

"Yes." Sherlock smirks dangerously, "Strip." 

Jim lifts an eyebrow, arms unconsciously freeing from Sherlock's grip, crossing over him, as if he were already exposed, " _Excuse_ me?"

"You may keep your pants on, if it's a big deal." Sherlock rolls his eyes — really, this was legitimately for science: mummies weren't prepared dressed in anything more than the linens, "It doesn't need to be entirely authentic, just your torso and legs will do." 

"For what possible reason do you need my _flesh_ rubbing against the abrasive materials?" 

"I need to check how the paint seeps."

" _Paint_? You're _painting_ me?"

"I noticed an inconsistency with the staining in the shroud — either the body or the wrap has been replaced, and the paint is the best way to prove that." 

Jim scowls, logic convincing enough, but holds eye contact as he mechanically began to undo his cufflinks, scanning for any sign of a lie, "You know… when you said 'experiment,' I confess this isn't what I had in mind."

"I make every effort not to be predictable; could complicate my work, if my opponents could determine how I might act in any given situation." 

Jim shrugs out of his shirt, confidence being key, neatly hanging it over one of the chairs, "Mathematically, it is possible to say what an average man might do." The undershirt is a bit of a struggle — scars everywhere on his body, ones Sherlock would be all-too-happy to fuss over. Not even "fuss," as he could probably read _all_ of it in the same breath it took to note them.

Regardless, his belt soon follows, trousers layered over the shirt in the same mindful fashion, "But an individual? Never."

"While _that_ may be true…" Sherlock considers, laying out the variety of ground-up materials to be used as pigments, "I am not average. Nor is anyone trying to pigeonhole me. No, in fact, they'd take great care to figure me out…" He began adding water to the three containers. 

"Woad leaf, bone and red clay." Jim says, scrutinizing the jars, as he crawls onto the table, black pants offering very little protection from the gaze of the detective, "Quite authentic." He lies down, aligning his limbs with the cloth.

Well, for now, Sherlock's discerning eye, ready to pick apart every inch of Jim's marred body, was elsewhere, "I said I was testing how the consistency _soaks_ , it'd mean nothing if it weren't the same composition — _ah-ha!_ "

"Finished?"

"Perfect consistency."

Jim huffs, closing his eyes, waiting for the moment of disgust whenever his body was discovered. 

What he gets is a cold streak, starting at his pectorals. A long blue strip blossoms down Jim's chest.

" _Ah!_ " Jim hisses, muscles tensing, curling up in a crunch, " _Cold!"_

"Sorry, I didn't think to put it in a warmer…" Sherlock tilts his head thoughtfully, back tip of the paintbrush resting against his jaw, "Then again, if we're thinking _Egypt_ , it was probably quite hot outside. Good catch." He steps back, placing the brush down, "I'll assume you've got a hairdryer somewhere?" 

"Yeah, let me — "

" _Don't_ get up!" Sherlock begs in a hushed scream, "Stay very still. I'll get it. Master bathroom?"

"Yeah." Jim grunts, lying flat against the hard surface, breathing as the color warmed up on his body, "Should be on the sink."

A few minutes later, they resumed. 

"Significantly better." Jim sighs softly, the paints pleasantly toasty after exposure to hot air. The brush was wiry, mildly scratchy, but not irritating, dragging over his now overly-sensitive flesh. It was almost calming.

"Alright, time to wrap." Sherlock says, examining the lines for uniformity, "Be still, don't want any jostles…" He smirks, "Usually done with a dead body, they're considerably less fidgety." 

"I don't _fidget_."

"Your heart beats, you fidget." Sherlock says, pulling the excess linens up, folding over Jim's arms. "I'm already seeing some inconsistencies…" 

"Oh?"

"Soaking a little too well…"

"Good news then?"

"Not sure."

 

* * *

 

 ****"It's a little binding." Jim says, voice a little strained, measuring his breaths, completely wrapped up, aside from his face.

"Of course." Sherlock hums, crossing Jim's arms over his torso, tying them together, "Again: dead men. Not the most mobile group. Speaking of which…" He reaches into one of the extra boxes, pulling out a large, metal hook, "You're a little too heavy. All that organ weight."

" _Sherlock_ — " Jim warns, beginning to squirm, but too well contained for any real distance, " — will _murder_ you." 

"You'd have to explain how you'd do that without a brain, as I'd be very impressed, if I were still alive." He rotates the catch between his fingers, contemplating it, "But worry less, dear, while your brain is your best feature, and I truly wish to examine it someday… it only works while _inside_ your skull."

Wasn't the most comforting of all statements, but it had a perverse logic, "How will you study it someday?"

"An MRI. I'll read you cue cards, see how the lights dance." He smirks, "Then I'll talk about myself, see how you _really_ feel."

Jim grimaces, trying to turn away, only managing a couple inches of leeway to move his neck, "You _know_ how I feel." _I thought we proved that in Ireland…_

Sherlock put the tool down, moving to crane over Jim's head, finger dragging over his burning cheek, "I do now." The plume of blush that fired over Jim's visage whenever feelings were discuss was proof enough. He brushes his lips over the rouge, only making it brighter, "Beautiful."

The sound that emanated from Jim's throat was somewhere between an angry growl and an embarrassed gurgle. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, a silent, amused: _what was that?_

 ****"Can you _not_ say things like that when I can't fight back?"

"There's no need to fight, especially if you'd lose." 

"Sherlock — !"

"No!" Sherlock pressed his palms against Jim's shoulders, "Yelling. Might shake it unnecessarily."

Jim scowls again, "How long do I have to stay here, immobile?"

Sherlock pulls up a chair, setting down in it leisurely, "Until you dry. So until then…" He leans forward, folding his hands under his chin, resting on it, "You're stuck with me."

While the criminal wondered if this entire experiment was about getting them to be together, talking, he didn't mind.


	10. There's the Rub

"What. The. _Hell?_ " Jim screams, shouts, stomping into the living room of 221B, absolutely livid. He didn’t generally stop by, but today was a special occasion, ears burning with rage. It’s the middle of the day, so John isn’t home, but Sherlock wasn’t immediately within sound’s reach, which only served to annoy Moriarty more. 

The Irishman trudges down the hallway to the detective’s room, kicking open the door, “ _Sherlock!_ ” He hisses, seeing the inert shape under the covers, hopping onto the mattress, grabbing at the lump, “ _Get up._ ”

To his surprise, his fingers come up empty, curled around a pile of clothing. _What the —_ the thought begins, but is interrupted by a tap at the bedroom door, “Am I disturbing something?” Sherlock’s bored tone reaches him, Jim turning to find the taller man leaning against the doorframe in his blue dressing gown, while he himself was fully clothed, straddling a man-shaped convex, “Here I thought we were exclusive?” 

Jim _hates_ how casual he can be at times like this. Making teasing jokes meant for his own amusement — _smug, arrogant prick_ , “You know why I’m here.” His voice dips darkly calm.

Sherlock does, a small grin his only sign of confirmation, “Thought sex was off the table… or the bed.” He raises his eyebrows, “Or anywhere, really.”

“You think you’re so clever.” Jim sounds destroyed, head shaking a little as his eyes fixate on a corner of the floor, “You’re just a complete arse.” 

 ****“Perhaps.” The detective concedes, face softening, “Why are you here, then?”

“Lillian Dowland.” Jim snaps, angry again, fist clenching the puffed-up comforters, “Her trial was yesterday, and you…” He shook his head at a loss for words. 

“The nun?” Sherlock asks, feigning confusion.

“The woman _posing_ as a nun so she could sneak infant Golden Langurs in her wimple and stash them in creative places. Or so your testimony _claimed_.” 

“Well, seeing as she was actually _convicted_ based on _evidence_ …”

“That _you_ went out of your stupid way to find!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you suggesting I shouldn’t have done my _job_?” Sherlock asks incredulously, stamping a foot down, “The ochre hairs I found were laying on a _pew_. Anyone would’ve found them if they hadn’t just _assumed_ they were from a person.”

“Which anyone would have!” 

“And that’s why most people are _idiots_.” Sherlock hisses, “Are we _really_ fighting about this? I thought our connection was based on —“  

“You could’ve just kept your mouth shut, but instead you cost me _millions_ —“ Were they really talking over each other, squabbling like petty children, screaming for recognition?

“Are you trying to guilt me?” Sherlock narrows his eyes, voice returning to infuriatingly blasé, “How disappointingly ordinary.” 

Oh, he always knew the exact worst thing to say. His beloved read people so well, but extended such little courtesy, “I told you to back off." He spits bitingly, indicating both his work and his fragile emotional state at this very moment. 

"And I seem to recall telling you that you were funny for even _suggesting_ — "

"I was being serious!" He throws his legs off the mattress, clunking down on the floor, stepping menacingly, measuredly, toward the taller man. 

"I am a _detective_.” Sherlock says firmly, finally feeling the pressure of Jim’s rage, “You are a consulting criminal. If you get caught, or I get your clients, it's _their_ fault, or even yours, for not being clever enough." He shrugs, speaking as if it were the most obvious, simple thing in the world. Jim is stunned to realize his beloved might even be _patronizing_ him, it’s so horrifically out of character, "I told you it's just my job. But one I do well."

"Throw enough stones and eventually one will hit…" Jim growls, eyes fixed on Sherlock's, fired-up cortex fuming through ways of tearing them out of the sockets, "I promised to burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes."

The detective frowns, an ugly little twist on his features, conveying the most devastating news, "There's only one way to do that, Jim." 

 _Oh_. Jim takes a step back, biting his bottom lip. It can't be time for _that_ , can it? Not when —  no, his hesitation, for no real reason other than _sentiment_ , means: "Yes." His voice is soft, regretful, "Yes, there is."

“Jim…” Sherlock swallows, finally realizing he’s done something wrong, pushed too far, “What are you saying?” 

“Don’t be stupid, _detective_.” Jim sighs, running a hand smoothly over the taller man’s jaw gently, confidence regained, “I’m not saying anything at all…” He pats the skin in mock affection, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the spot, though it feels as if he’s punching him.

Sherlock feels the point of contact like it’s a bruise.

That’s all the “goodbye” he gets as the criminal glides out of his house, almost impossibly light on his feet. 


	11. Wine & Venom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE UPDATE AFTER ANOTHER?!?!? IN THE SAME FIC!?!? WHAT?!?!
> 
> Sorry guys, I just COULDN'T leave it there...

“Diamond cufflinks?” Sherlock whispers, bending at the hips to get right up to his ear, “How tacky.”

Jim wets his lips, takes a sip of crimson wine from the glass in his left hand. Hadn’t been expecting to talk to anyone yet, “Seemed appropriate.” While the Borodin family’s formal was quite a large gathering of important people (and clients), he couldn’t believe Sherlock was actually there. For one, it was in Moscow. Two, you had to be expressly invited by one of the elite class ponces. 

If it were anyone else, Jim might feel stalked, and that their meeting wasn’t pure coincidence. But it’d been _weeks_ , even more so than usual, since they’d seen each other, “Do you really think opening with an insult is going to finally get you into my pants?” 

And considering they were in such a large venue, spanning several ballrooms, everyone in black-and-white, he was surprised the detective had even ferreted him out. Despite himself, Jim doesn’t step away, or even flinch to put space between them. 

“You assume that’s my goal.” He huffs, almost offended. He reels it in, backing away, movements tight, forced, “Saw you. Thought I’d say ‘hi.’”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as Jim takes another sip, turning to look at Sherlock, bell of the glass warping his gaze. Looked good, curls styled neatly for the event, trousers pressed, healthy weight. Clearly not _too_ bothered by their separation, not that Jim _wanted_ him to be sulking. 

Infuriatingly, Jim had been _okay_. Still taken great care to maintain his appearance, of course, as that was everything in the business world, but he’d been _lonely_. It took him a week to even notice — no more text messages that came in the middle of the night, or day, asking for dates or strange things or intellectually charged discussion. He’d taken to chit-chat with his bodyguards, who were too afraid to _really_ talk to him. In a way, he hated Sherlock for poisoning him like this. 

A small shrug of his shoulders, not saying a word. 

Sherlock visibly bites the inside of his cheek, “Sorry to bother you.” He forces out, “However. I’ve been hired by the marquis tonight. Something about an assassination, I wasn’t listening.” 

“Oohh.” Jim coos, “And you thought I was behind it?” _Not yet, of course, but I will be. Got some time to kill…_

“Only you would have the audacity… besides, something beautiful about it, no?” He asks, stealing Jim’s glass, taking a small victory sip, “You were hired by the marchioness, after all.”

Jim scowls, eyes following the alcohol, “Was not.” 

“Then why are you _here_?” He looks around at the throng of intoxicated, posh guests, swirling it, “Didn’t think you enjoyed the company of others.” 

“Social event of the year.” Jim comments wryly, gently snatching the wine back and finishing it off.

“Yes, about that…” Sherlock dusts off his hand on his vest, pulling out a crisp white matte envelope from his chest pocket, “It’s invite-only.”

Jim’s eyes narrow, the hand-addressed letter from the marchioness burning a hole in his coat, “I’m friends with the Earl.”

“It’s not _his_ party.”

“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t get me an invitation.” 

“Yes, but other than a spot of mischief, _why_ would you come? Wasn’t exactly down the street.” 

“This is getting old.” Jim feigns a yawn, quickly turning real — the wine was delicious and _dangerous_. Hardly knew you were drinking it. _Must’ve had four… no, three and a half glasses, darling sleuth here stealing part of that last one…_

“Perhaps.” Sherlock rolls his neck, “I’ve got people to interrogate. Pardon my intrusion.”

The detective turns to go, even taking a few purposeful steps away, almost disappearing into the sea of tuxedos and black dresses before the orchestra picks up, the opening of “Prince Igor.” Jim smirks slightly. Begins soft, becomes something sinister. Too appropriate to pass up, “ _Wait_.” He calls lazily, looking into his empty glass. In his periphery, he sees Sherlock freeze, gliding back, “You… ah… have yet to say hello.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You said you came to say ‘hi.’ You haven’t.” Jim says casually as possible, playful, but secretly annoyed at himself for getting drunk on the job. Oh well. Things were set in motion on their own, he didn’t really need to oversee it. No, he needed a certain meddling detective distracted, “And…” He sets his glass on small table that only contained a garish amount of flowers, “I think I might like to dance.” 

Ah, sentiment. He saw the cogs working in Sherlock’s head, wondering if he should be suspicious of Jim’s outstretched hand. “This isn’t a song you dance to.”

“Indulge me.” He entreats with a sweet smile, holding out his hands.

Another minute of deliberation. Ultimately, however, Sherlock must decide against skepticism, taking it and gracefully pulling the smaller man’s body toward his, “I’ll lead.” 

“Don’t you always?” Jim rolls his eyes, but falls in step without a hitch. 

“Thought that was something of a taboo subject?” 

“Bit snockered, I’m afraid.” Jim giggles, “Besides, I know you’re _dying_ to say something…”

It was rather forward, and Sherlock responded in kind, the statement drilling a hole in his skull, “You can’t just walk out for a _little_ fight.”

“I can. I did.”

“Well. Yes.” He sighs, movements speeding up with the tempo, “But it’s not conducive to having a long-term relationship.”

“And who says that’s what I want?”

“Just a feeling…” Sherlock hums, hand on Jim’s shoulder creeping up to run through his hair, “I… feel very strongly about you. I’ve never met anyone even close to an equal before…” 

 _The feeling is mutual. Unfortunately_. No, no, _no!_ This was exactly the kind of thing Jim had been trying to run away from in the first place. _Best to turn the attentions._ “Darling…” Jim purrs, leaning in to it, allowing him to crane his neck around to glance none-too-subtly at the marquis, “You’re really worried about our failed relationship when a man’s life hangs in the balance?”

“I’ve already stopped that plan, you know.” Sherlock points out, turning them effortlessly, “I noticed his wife drop something in his glass earlier, so I tossed it out.” 

“Bit of a moot point, I’m afraid…” Jim says dreamily, letting Sherlock spin him once, “Considering the Marquis is already dead…” 

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock double takes to the table, the man very clearly displaying signs of life.

“Oh yes…” Jim chuckles, still light on his feet as Sherlock’s become heavy with shock, “The glass trick was a decoy, just in case.” He nudges the detective to keep moving, lest they draw attention, “I replaced his cufflinks, you see.” His eyes flit to his own, “I bought perfect replicas and switched them out in the loo… well, not _perfect_. The backings are a bit _sharper_ , and tend to slip…” He shrugs, taking the lead without Sherlock’s notice, “Nothing you can do now… that poison in his system is untraceable and has no antidote… though it _will_ take three days to kill him…” He leans forward, whispering in his ear, “Might as well enjoy the party, really.” 

“You —“ Sherlock begins, but his throat has gone dry in rage and envy. 

“You ruined my case, I ruined yours.” Jim hisses, a self-satisfied grin cracking his face. 

Sherlock concedes, the criminal can see it all over his dejected body language. He stops entirely, “You did.” Jim’s eyes flare open as the detective adds a small, confident bow. 

“Well, well, the great detective bows to me. That’s interesting.”

“You’ve certainly earned it.” 

Jim is surprised to find Sherlock grinning right back — the nerve. _He_ hadn’t earned that at all, “Something amusing?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nods in exaggerated bobs, “We’re even.” 

 **** _Arrogant sod_. Jim frowns, “Who are you to _decide_ that?” 

“I’m not — you did. Equating our ruined cases, even off-handedly…” He places an arm around Jim’s waist gingerly, as if he might break from the revelation, “You’ve forgiven me, even if it was by way of revenge… shall we continue? The slow part is beginning again.”

Jim swallows, “No.” It’s a clipped syllable, twisting out of Sherlock’s embrace. Oh, he won the case, but damned if he didn’t just lose the war. He paces away, hoping not to make a scene.  

But lo and behold, someone’s caught him by the wrist, whispering in his ear, “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Talk? Date? “I won’t be back in London, I’m afraid.” 

“No matter.” His voice dips dangerously low, going right down Jim’s spine, “I was going to ask you to the airport anyway.”


	12. When In Rome

They’d parted shortly afterward, the detective supplying Moriarty with only an address. Jim had politely listened, of course, but otherwise left Sherlock standing there, wanting. Refused to confirm, not even shooting him a courtesy text on his way back to the hotel.

He sits on the edge of his plush mattress, comforter nesting around him. For hours, _actual_ hours, Jim loops through the information. _Date. Sherlock. Italy, cursorily based on the zip code._ If nothing else, the continued prospect of ‘dating’ is interesting. _This_ type of high-risk, reduced-sexual-contact dating.  

Really, there’s no reason to stand Sherlock up. Save for one: for all the beautiful things about the man, that silver tongue is a _problem_. If Jim goes, he knows he’ll say yes to it all, whatever he asks, the charm far too much, even for his finely-tuned sensibilities. 

In short: to go means to gain a boyfriend. To not… well, Sherlock would probably keep trying if Jim allowed it. 

A grin leads him into his dreams.  

 

* * *

 

The address, it turns out, was a café on the outskirts of Rome. He narrows his eyes skeptically as he sees Sherlock’s mop of curls. His head was tilted down, skimming through some text document on his phone. Completely unaware Jim was watching. _So defenseless_ , is his initial impression, but knows that’s the intention. Neither Holmes _ever_ lets his guard down.

 _Well… that’s not quite true._ Jim remembers a tender moment or two back at his house. Sherlock had certainly been the _aggressor_ in the situation, but he bowed so easily, so prettily to Jim’s pleas. If he’d only opened his mouth a little more, advocated early, been more demanding… things could be tweaked. _If_ , and only _if_ , he wanted it to be so. 

Yet, his presence there suggested ‘if’ wasn’t far out of the realm of possibility.

“Sorry I’m late.” Jim says perfunctorily, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it behind his chair, hands gripping over it, pausing before he sat, “Traffic was a horror.”

Sherlock leisurely pocketed his mobile, “In Russia, or from the airport?” 

“Both.”

“I assume by ‘traffic,’ you meant ‘clients.’” Sherlock offers, looking up at him with unaffected eyes, “Are you going to sit, or will you be dining like that?”

“Yes and no, respectively.” He replies, fighting the urge to roll his eyes or run off. His legs, however, remain steady, stepping in front of the chair and sitting down, nervously biting his lip, “Menu?”

“Already ordered for you, apologies.” Sherlock bows his head reverently, a tint of apology, “Promise I know what’s good.” 

It’s a small annoyance, but Jim didn’t plan on staying very long. “Doesn’t matter.” He waves a hand, “I’m still not sure why you’ve asked me here.” Given a place to be, but no more. Truthfully, if Sherlock had forwent the mystery, Jim would’ve shrugged it all off, so easily able to calculate what would happen. Even now, he was running through a list of scenarios, but the variables were numerous.

Balance of probability suggested it was yet another run-in about their pithy remains of a relationship, but the detective was smarter than that. Just enough to keep him interested. _Clever bastard, ruining my best —_

“How’ve you been?” Sherlock interrupts what was sure to be a lovely internal tirade. 

“Peachy.”

“Work?”

“Mostly boring, but have to make a living somehow.”

“Then what’s interesting?” Sherlock asks, adding casually, “Heard the marquis has fallen ill.”

Jim barely contains a deranged snicker, still bubbling up as a smirk, “Has he? Such a shame.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock shrugs, “Have to wonder what will happen after his demise.”

“I wouldn’t know… I was told not to ask questions.” Oh, but he _did_ put things together, “I’ve been nursing a sneaking suspicion that the marchioness was having an affair with the duke.” 

“Sounds awfully muddled.” Sherlock shakes his head, “Why not divorce? Waiting around for death seems extreme.”

“It is. But prenuptial agreements have made the modern era _so_ much more blood-thirsty.”

“Ah, there’s always a catch.”

A large tray of sweets and coffee was set between them, a rather suave-looking waiter offering a smile. Everything looked wonderful — freshly baked confections, warm, aromatic scent making his mouth water — not to mention he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. But, “Coffee?” Jim asks incredulously, a single eyebrow arched, “You asked me to _Italy_ for _coffee?_ ”

“And pastries.” Sherlock adds dreamily, thanking the waiter in about intermediate-level Italian. The accent could use work, but Jim wasn’t exactly an expert either.

“Seems more relaxed than our usual affairs.” Was he disappointed? Minimally. The standard had been set quite high, peppered with illegality and slow-burning infatuation. 

Sherlock shrugs, “If each of our encounters was _extraordinary_ , they might become dull in themselves.” He selects a croissant, chocolate leaking out of it, setting it carefully on his plate as a small drizzle followed, “Besides, something so normal as coffee and scones needed a justification — hence the change of scenery.” 

Jim rolls his eyes, but capitulates, taking a seat, “Couldn’t we have stayed in Russia? They have coffee there, I’ve seen it.”

“Two dates in the same place? So soon? Don’t want to seem one note.”  

“I don’t count last night as a date… more of a run-in.”

“Which ended with us getting back together.” Sherlock quips, stirring in some sugar, “Close enough.”

“Getting ahead of yourself aren’t you, dear?” Jim lightly kicks his chair, jostling Sherlock’s steady hand, “All I agreed to was meeting you here — hardly a sign-up for a lifetime of merriment.”

“‘Lifetime’ only applies to our rivalry.” Sherlock is quick to correct, “I’ve yet to find compelling evidence to suggest monogamous romantic partnerships can remain fulfilling indefinitely.” He picks up his saucer and blows lightly over the steam, “Our more affectionate ‘contract’ may end at any time.” He took a sip, humming in delight, “Perfect.”

It wasn’t long before Jim joined him, unable to keeps his hands away. He nibbled on the corner of a scone, trying to retain some dignity, but didn’t last long as it suddenly disappeared, the only evidence left were flakes of it around his lips. He dusted them off covertly as possible, sipping at the coffee (though even that was short-lived). 

Between bites and drinks, he found himself laughing, not even thinking about it. Or thinking to stop himself. 

After about an hour, things die down, and he finds himself annoyed. _Enjoying_ Sherlock’s company so unabashedly, when he was supposed to be angry. “Is there a _point_ to this conversation?”

It’s a sudden and cutting contrast to the airy nature of their conversation, the detective takes a moment to acclimate to the harsh tone, “Does there need to be?”

“Seeing as I’ve got clients to blow off, I need some justification.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, setting the cup back on the tray. He swallows, folding his arms, nervous, the statement either going to be received well or horribly, “I’ve missed you.” 

The criminal nearly drops the cup. So simple, he hadn’t been expecting it. It’s not even a plea, or a question, or an offer. Subjective feeling, and not even the most preposterous of ones. He didn’t even ask if Jim returned the sentiment. Mild or no, it packs a worse punch than an ex-client who was once a boxer, “Is that all?”

He searched for any suggestion of a lie. But it was there in his posture — slack, remorseful. His eyes bore the weight of prior weeping, lack of sleep. Even his pallor indicated a deleterious lifestyle. 

Regardless of all that, the detective looked well to someone not paying too close attention, functioning as he always had. “Ah, there is a _small_ matter…” Movements still swift, Sherlock finishes off the cup, taking his time with a napkin to make sure his clothing was crumb-free, lips clean. His companion hadn’t left in a huff, nor threatened his life. _Progress._

“Which is?” Jim asks, eyes dropping, suddenly self-conscious if his appearance was pristine as usual.

“We’re in Rome.” The detective specifies, “I’ve always wanted to see the Pantheon.”

 _And there’s the date offer._ Thankfully, Jim was immune to those. “I’ve already seen it.”

“As have I, but that was on a job.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course.” Sherlock leaves a few bills on the table, “Working, you don’t get the same satisfaction. You’re not there for the sole purpose of enjoyment, clouded up by searching for something else in the present. Doesn’t matter if it’s clues or mischief, your attentions are elsewhere.”

“Oh, right.” Moriarty leans back, arms hanging loosely over the rests, “You’re an art lover.” As if he’d forgotten; as if he _could_ forget. 

“Most certainly… I daresay you’ve grown an appreciation for it yourself.” He winks, immediately sending the smaller man’s thoughts back to his most recent acquisition.

“Part of its appeal is _how_ it came to be in my possession…” A gift. A stolen gift at that. 

Sherlock grins that omniscient, pleased grin. As if that was exactly the answer he was looking for. He got up and wandered over to Jim’s side, looking down at him fondly, offering a hand to help him up, “And who’s to say we won’t find something we might like to ‘preserve?’”

Brown eyes flit up, searching his beautiful, slender face. Always keeping things interesting. He bites his bottom lip, hesitating still. Sometimes, in moments of genuine fear, it’s like looking into a mirror — if he steps back, Sherlock will step back. He stays still, and the detective stops. That’s when it’s needed, and makes Jim feel safe.

The infinitely more dangerous side of him is what can only be described as a wave: Jim swims away out of fear, but a tide pulls back, dragging him into a swell, something larger, greater, before being overtaken entirely in the cylindrical crash. Sometimes that fear may be justified, the power in a force such as the ocean, the untold depths hiding behind those clear blue eyes… 

Potential destruction, however, sparked Jim’s heart in ways he thought only the job could. _Escaping_ would be his greatest achievement. 

Defiantly (the last bit of resistance he has left), Jim stands on his own, clearing his throat, prompting that he’ll follow. However, that doesn’t seem to be enough, Sherlock standing there, eyebrows lifted in expectation, hand still outstretched.

“For the love of…” The criminal rolls his eyes, taking his companion’s hand roughly, casually, as if it’s such a burden. Sherlock ruins that too, interlacing their fingers, giving his palm a light squeeze, the hint of a smile contagious as hell.

_When in Rome…_


	13. The Best Laid Plans

Marble. Smooth, elegant, durable. Jim turns a lime-sized chunk of it over in his palm as he thinks. He’s in London again, though he’s been away for some weeks — a day or so in Marrakech, Beijing, Cape Town… hours upon hours on planes, all rushed business trips that he’d nearly forgotten about. Dangerously little sleep, and it showed in the deep purple crescents under his eyes. 

All because of this stupid rock.

Not the most valuable of things he’d ever stolen, but perhaps to the right _buyer…_ _if_ Jim had any mind to sell his keepsake. This was special, and was something of a pain to take — part of that famous marble flooring of the Pantheon, with dozens of tourists milling about. Potential witnesses, either able to see, or more likely _hear_ as Jim chipped at a particularly weak spot with the blunt of his pocket knife, clipped to the bottom of his shoe.

Sherlock would be furious if he knew — Jim had _defaced_ an ancient wonder of unknown age and author. But the detective had wandered off, leaving his mischievous partner unsupervised. Not that Jim was a _child,_ but often had strokes of child- _like_ inspiration, which had a similar impulsive drive: once thought up, _had_ to be done.

But he’d stayed all too long, caught up in the thrill of stealing, the beauty of the sunlight shining down… Sherlock walking around like he’d found Santa’s workshop. Such lovely distractions, causing the criminal to miss his flight to Morocco. It was almost worth it.

The hunk of marble belongs on his mantle, back in Ireland. Should’ve made a stop there, but Jim is having a hard time letting go. He didn’t use to be one for mementos, leaving most things firmly in the past. But with Sherlock… he _wants_ the tethers. Wants to hold, or look at a window to a prettier day. 

Even now, Jim _should_ be reviewing the cost estimate for the job in Toronto (which was mostly bribe money), but is too busy pondering whether or not Sherlock keeps tokens as well. Or did memories serve the man well enough? 

Moriarty didn’t trust scenic memory. Numeric? Yes. Procedural? Of course. Names, words, definitions, _concrete_ ideas had been shown to have lasting impressions, with little room for muddling. But senses? Things of more abstract nature? The human brain couldn’t remember pain at all. It had been theorized that each time one brought a “memory” to the surface, you were actually remembering the _memory_ , your own personal file, not the event itself. And each time, things tended to shift, melt, alter, as flawed humans had a way of doing with all that they could manipulate. 

Objects, however, were solid. Evidence that something had occurred (yet another reason Jim tended to circumvent ever having them). Carl’s shoes, for many years, had been the _bane_ of his existence. Not a trophy, but a heinous scar, gathering tissue on his frontal cortex. Always a chance the sneakers would be discovered (even if most of the lay-folk wouldn’t know what they were, or where to begin with them), and contrary to what most of his associates would believe, it brought him no pleasure to remember that day.

They were Sherlock’s problem now. Except to _Sherlock,_ they weren’t a “problem.” They remain a gift. _Oh_. Jim sits up abruptly, clenching hard at the stone, _That’s a reminder of me. That’s a problem._ The detective now practically worships something Moriarty abhorred. If either of them even did that sort of thing.

Jim runs a hand over his face. _I have to fix this… but that means thinking of something to eclipse it in significance._ Which is impossible, when he’d made such a big deal of them during the game. _We were made for each other! We started in the same place! Look at me, I’m the murderer you’ve been looking for!_ A mask of self-parody at best, but it wasn’t helping. How could he have know _this_ would happen?

What a question. 

Stunned for a moment, Jim regroups. Getting up, he gingerly tucks the marble slab into his jacket pocket. He heads to his office, diverting his desktop’s attentions elsewhere (idly farming Bitcoins could take a back seat), determined to find a very-close-to-perfect gift. 

 

* * *

 

Inspiration hit almost immediately, but it took Jim 45-minutes of second-guessing himself to be sure. Most of the items would be easily obtained with a click of a button (and as of now, they _are_ ). One, however… a multi-step problem, but not impossible. 

 _Oh, Sherlock… creating mental puzzles for me even when you’ve got no idea they exist…_ An email to a scientist, head of a discreet lab, and workers whose silence could be bought or threatened. “Six weeks.” Jim narrows his eyes as he repeats the timeframe in the reply. Nearly two months. At minimum! Unacceptable by general standards, but Moriarty is well-aware of what a delicate procedure it is.

Rubbing his eyes, he opens a final webpage, ordering enough pizza to drown a herd of cattle. He leaves the office, heading for the shower. The water runs scalding hot, skin tingling as he steps out, system shocked at the sudden cool air from the vents. Wrapping himself in a robe, he heads to the living room, trying to find something worthwhile on his pithy bookshelf.

It’s as he’s winding down for the night, ready to get back to hobbies of less illicit nature, he hears a looping clip of the Bee Gees near his head. _Is my day never done?_ He wonders, reaching over the side of the sofa to grab his mobile. 

Sherlock. Jim smirks, but quickly corrects his expression into a blank mask. Probably should’ve expected contact by now, but distractions had gotten to both of them — last Moriarty had heard, the detective was on a rare case that Jim’s clever hands hadn’t toyed in. 

 

**How was South Africa? -SH**

 

 **** _How_ the sleuth knew where he’d been was questionable, seeing as Jim had been careful to use several aliases between each border. Yet, if _anyone_ could track his movements…

 

**Tedious, but profitable. -JM**

 

**Sympathies. You’re home now, correct? -SH**

 

**Depends on how one defines “home.” -JM**

 

**Dublin? -SH**

 

**How I would, yes. -JM**

**But I’m actually back in London. -JM**

 

**Oh, excellent. -SH**

**Are you well-rested? -SH**

 

**Not particularly. -JM**

**Timezones are a tricky beast. -JM**

 

**Would Monday be sufficient enough time? -SH**

 

**For what? Inviting me to spend a thrilling day in your company? -JM**

 

**Something to that effect. -SH**

 

Three days. Jim’s eyes glanced over the pizza boxes, each half-eaten and picked over. Judging by _that_ evidence, his body needed more recovery before their next encounter. To see Sherlock in anything less than peak condition would just be insulting to the both of them, resulting in only a waste of time.

 

**Friday would be in our better interest. -JM**

 

**Dress casually. -SH**

 

* * *

 

“Dress casually.” Jim huffs, standing under an umbrella Sherlock so chivalrously held out for him. Thankfully his jeans could get wet, but he didn’t want to deal with the _mud_ caking his trainers, “You should tell me your plans in advance.” _So I can tell you why I would rather not do them._ However, he should've known when the detective had gotten them train tickets to  _Wiltshire._ Longleat House was famous in some circles, though they tended toward the _younger_ generation...

“Apologies.” Sherlock offers, staring out into the downpour, at the opening in the topiary, “But days like this really are the best for tourist attractions.” 

“You did this on _purpose_?” The smaller man had already been scowling, side-eying the detective, “And your idea of an entertaining day was running through a hedge maze? Isn’t this sort of thing for _children?_ ”

“Perhaps.” For a moment, the detective’s expression turns wistful, “But I was never allowed to do these sorts of things as a child.”

Jim tilts his head, risking a few droplets frizzing up his hair. Worth it for the rare insight into Sherlock’s guarded ruminations, “Why not?”

“In short? Family problems.” He begins to walk forward, Jim unconsciously following as green envelops his peripheral vision, the hedges at least a meter above his head. 

“And in elaboration?” Their footsteps squish under them, little spurts of mud splashing out.

The taller man smirks, almost as if he’s amused by Jim’s interest. _Almost as if no one ever had before._ “My babysitter was my brother.” Sherlock sighs, turning a soft corner, “I don’t hold it against him. Probably the last thing a ten-year-old boy ever wants to do is raise their ‘useless’ baby brother. But I was usually ordered to be quiet and keep to myself.”

“You never went anywhere?”

“Sometimes. When our parents deigned to have a hand in my life.” Sherlock muses, looking from side to side as they come to a fork in the paths, “Left or right?”

“Left.” Jim replies, a lull in the conversation as they meander on, “You spent most of your childhood indoors then?”

“You couldn’t tell by my hands?” He asks, curling and uncurling his fingers over the handle of the umbrella, “Pure, unmarred, unworked. Just as I can tell from tiny, well-faded scars on yours that you had a more adventurous go of it.”

Jim scoffs, “‘Adventurous’ would be a radical interpretation of the text.” But the notion of it being worse to be a kept, caged bird, versus one left to its own devices is one he hadn’t previously given much credence. Listening to the strained recollection, however, the Irishman is beginning to have his doubts.

They let a silence fall as they got progressively more lost, strolling with no regard for direction. _The issue…_ Jim thinks, trying to draw a mental map of what he’d seen, _Is that the bushes are too high for me to crawl up, and there is no frame of reference. All looks the same… though I suppose that was the intention._ Was there really any fun in losing his precious sense of place?

Sherlock is the one to break the lull, pausing as they hit a dead end. There’s a curious look on his face as he turns around — disappointment with himself, as if he expected to take the correct path each time. “Seeing as we’re here, alone, and the rain will muffle any tails we may have picked up, it’s probably safe to ask you what you need lab-grown gem for.”

Jim stops dead in his tracks, “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”

“I know. But I’m apprised to the goings-on of most labs- the doors degrees in chemistry open, you’d be surprised.”

“Clearly.” The smaller man mumbled, not paying attention, Sherlock flinging out an arm to stop him from running straight into an errant corner.

“If it makes you feel any better…” He says cautiously, “I don’t know _what_ you’re growing. Just that the facility that makes gemstones is ‘completely occupied’ for the next six to ten weeks.”

 _A little better, though the surprise is moderately ruined._ “Answer me something, Sherlock.” Jim replies, turning them around to the last bend they’d found, taking the opposite direction.

The detective inclines his head as they come up to one of the six bridges placed along the maze. The go up the wooden steps, leaving ugly, well-defined tracks behind them.

“This is a ‘date,’ right?” Jim asks, stopping midway across the overpass, looking out, trying to find the center.

“I consider it so.” Sherlock hums, pointing out, “The observation tower.” It was hard to miss, a glorified gazebo poking out from the rows of hedges. The final goal. Far, far away from where they stood.

“Well…” Jim pretends to fiddle nervously with the corner of his shirt, “Isn’t the point then that we _gradually_ reveal things, with the purpose of getting to know the other person better? And if that person has the potential to be a long-term mate?”

“I believe we determine the purpose ourselves.” He gives a smug, half-smile, “Is that how you see this?” _Potential for long term?_ Until this point, Jim had been resistant of even the short-term. Even if this was a blatant deflection, it could stand _some_ consideration.

“At its core, yes.”

“I’m glad. I tend to see it that way as well.”

“Then you’ll forgive me if I keep a few secrets?” He places a hand over Sherlock’s, resting together on the railing, “Else you may find me boring all too quickly.”

“A clever way to avoid the question while simultaneously making me content and pliable.” Sherlock cast him a sly look, giving his palm a light squeeze, “I do enjoy when you’re clever.”

Jim smirks, popping up on his toes to press a kiss to Sherlock’s chilled lips. “Now then…” he murmurs, a malicious grin tugging at his features, “To change the game.” It’d been a bit too revealing of a day — they could both do with a jovial boost. He gave a single wink before pushing back on the rail, taking off as quickly as he dared with slick ground. _Shoes were screwed regardless._

Sherlock blinks, “What…?” Even from his higher vantage point, the top of Jim’s head disappears into the leaves. Not much time to decide. He sighs, _hadn’t been prepared for this._ But if the theme of the day were “childlike,” this was certainly the way to go. 

He closed the umbrella, letting the rain soak him as it already had his companion. He set it down, running after Jim with letting regard for his borrowed possession.

It’d been Mycroft’s anyway.


	14. Flood

Sherlock’s face stings. A thrilling twenty minutes of running, following the dissolving tracks in the softened ground.Eyes so focused on them, he’s perplexed when they disappear. He looks up. Second bridge, pronounced tracks going across from medium-sized feet. 

It could be considered cheating, but Sherlock had always considered such slanderous barbs as “using every tool at his disposal.” Clambering up, he is disappointed to find that the angle isn’t so favorable — he barely sees into the maze itself, the walls almost as high as his vantage point. He finds a gap in the railings, leaning out, but still sees nothing but greenery. 

Not only that, but the tracks vanish, making no indication Jim had come any farther. “Impossible…” He whispers, scanning the area. They stopped almost exactly where he was standing.

“ _Tag!_ ” He hears it before he feels a clammy hand wrap around his ankle. 

“ _Ah!_ ” Sherlock flinches back, the strong grip not releasing. Looking down, he finds large brown eyes staring up at him, a Cheshire Cat grin all-too-pleased with itself. Jim had been hiding beneath the bridge, perched on one of the hedges, just out of his sight, until Sherlock had gotten too close. _Ingenious._ “I thought _I_ was chasing _you_?”

“It was mutual.” Jim replies, blinking rapidly to keep water out of his corneas, hands occupied by the task of suspending himself, “And I win.”

“Do you now?” Sherlock tilts his head to the side, folding his arms as he observed Jim’s predicament. “Seems you have a good two meters’ worth of fall there… and your don’t have the leverage to get yourself back up.” More weight was dangling than could be boosted by his minimal purchase on the ledge. 

“Uh…” Jim hadn’t planned this far ahead when he’d decided to slink under the bridge, finally seeing the err in his logic, “Could you give me a hand?”

Sherlock smiles, “Just so you know, I could be evil, and leave you there until you made some strange, possibly embarrassing promise.” He kneels down, both hands grasping Jim’s forearms, pulling him up with minimal effort, “But I’m too nice for that.” 

Jim slides through the gap in the railing ( _must be nice being so small,_ Sherlock thinks), cheeks red with embarrassment, and something to do with windchill — no telling exactly how long he’d been sitting still. “Yeah, well…” He huffs, but doesn’t finish, nothing to retort as he shakes out his hair. It sticks up in random places, and Sherlock can’t help but reach out, combing his hand through, playing with the wet locks between his fingers.

“What are you doing?” Jim asks. He considers being _annoyed_ , the detective so casually mussing up his hair… but it was hell when this soaked anyway. _Damage done… and there’s that look again_. The detective’s palm lightly caresses down to his cheek, yet another confirmation that it was purely out of affection.

“May I kiss you?” The question slips so easily from Sherlock’s tongue, eyes fogging over with endearment. 

Jim swallows, lips forming into a pout, “Why are you asking?”

“Because I’d like to.” They both looked like adorable disasters, and he couldn’t help but feel that _tug_ , nearly breathless at the prospect, despite knowing he is just as likely to get rejected. 

“But why _ask?_ You usually don’t.” Jim is stalling. Not a question of if he _wants_ to, but his mind couldn’t help but calculate potential consequences. 

“Yes. And _usually_ you end up uncomfortable with my advances. I’d like to avoid that this time.”

Jim licks his lips, “I’m soaked.” Grimacing at the tang of salt, thinks, _And disgusting, apparently._

“So am I.” Sherlock places his free hand on Jim’s shoulder, “No excuses. If you say ‘no,’ I won’t. Simple as that.”

Jim tenses at the touch, sucking his lips in. Consequences. Oh, but they were having a _moment_ … He doesn’t bother with an answer, hopping up on his toes and pressing a light kiss to Sherlock’s mouth.

Shock. Surprise. _Initiative?_ They feel things mutually, connecting. Hearts switching chests. The bump of lips is awkward for a moment as they remember they were _doing_ something. They fall into a rhythm, the taste of rainwater a distant nuisance.

It’s a slow burn, beginning in the heart, pulsing outward with each speeding beat. Sherlock advances, Jim steps backward, pressed against a support beam. Seconds of panic. It’s not about the air of _danger_ one has when pinned by an enemy, but how much more _urgent_ things seem. 

Breaking the kiss, Jim grips at Sherlock’s shirt, silently begging him _not_ to back entirely off. Panting, they stare at each other, pupils dilated, almost devouring their entire irises. A tiny smile lifts Sherlock’s lips, “Shall we continue?”

“Continue?” 

“The maze.” Sherlock clarifies, “We’re less than halfway through and already we’re getting side-tracked.” 

“I thought _this_ was the main ‘track?’” Kissing, their relationship, whatever purpose this ultimately served, _Dates themselves are supposed to be vehicles for development…_

“Overall, yes. But given our location…” The detective glances at the path forward, “Our priority should _theoretically_ be finishing the puzzle.” 

“And what if it _isn’t?_ ”

“Then what is?”

Jim puffs out his cheeks, eyes narrowing as they flick from Sherlock’s lips back to his clear blue gaze, “Don’t make me say it.” 

“What if that’s my aim?”

It’s a subtle checkmate, but one no less. Jim stands in the corner of a board, staring down a crafty set of pieces. Should’ve been obvious that Sherlock had been trying to coax an admission of adoration… he always is. _Perhaps just the once I can give in?_ A battle hard fought, and so honorably lost. “I think…” He murmurs, body language curling in on itself, “I think I can live with a puzzle unsolved.”

“And why is that?”

Jim sneaks a glance upward. Sherlock’s eyes gleam with excitement. “Because…” He continues, but stalls. Stops entirely. He returns his mouth to Sherlock’s, _Because I’d rather kiss you_. It sounded so coquettish, demure, clumsy… he just couldn’t let something like that be said in his own voice. 

Thankfully, Sherlock seems to take the hint, tight hold returning, grasping, _needy_. Jim mewls low in his throat, air being stolen from him. Unconsciously, one of his legs wraps around Sherlock’s, drawing him even closer. _Thank god we’re alone_. 

But it’s with that internal grace that Jim remembers it’s _cold_ and _rainy_. Sighing, he breaks away, “Hard to really invest when I’m five seconds from shivering…” He picks out a lock of his hair, squeezing it, an unbroken stream dripping down, “Somewhere warmer, perhaps?”

“And some spare clothes, or at least a dryer…” Sherlock agrees, his shirt nearly sticking to his form, “My place is more than two hours away… hotel?”

A loaded offer. Saying “yes” didn’t mean saying “yes” to _everything_ … yet the looming possibility was more than enough to set Jim’ nerves alight. Unable to tell if it was fear or desire, Jim decides it didn’t need to be set in stone. Changeable, he always was, “Yes.” 

They both smile with numb, pale lips. “Let’s go before we freeze to death.” Sherlock entwines their fingers, walking back the way they came.

“Do you even remember _how_ to get out?” Jim asks as he ambles along, their prints in the path long since washed away.

“Children make it through and back all the time.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, spitting rain out of his mouth, wind now blowing directly in his face, “How hard can it be?”

 

* * *

 

Turns out it was more complex than initially calculated — as frustration grew, they made more and more mistakes, finding themselves doubling back on their own tracks several times. Might’ve helped if Jim hadn’t run blindly for so long that he hadn’t thought to map out where he’d been. 

It was more than half and hour before they made it out; the rainclouds occluded the sun, but it was somewhere near dusk. The one benefit to this, at least in Sherlock’s mind, was that they had begun clinging to each other as their teeth began to chatter.

Waterlogged, they grab a taxi, taking them to the first nearby hotel. Jim is a bit surprised that Sherlock opts for two queen-sized beds, but he supposes that’s in line with not making assumptions about his comfort level. It’s sweet. 

“Someday…” Sherlock muses after they’ve gotten into their suite, immediately heading for the bathroom to grab towels and robes, “I want to stay at the park itself.” 

“Why’s that?” Jim asks, hopping over to the thermostat and cranking it up high.

“Lots of exotic animals.” He comes back out, tossing a wad of towels and two white terrycloth robes onto the nearest bed, “Could be interesting to wake up to.”

“I’ll say.” Jim takes a towel and begins drying out his hair, momentarily covering his face. Sufficiently dry a minute or so later, Jim removes it to find Sherlock’s clothes in a heap on the floor. He swallows, looking up slowly, only to find his partner already in one of the robes, similarly patting his curls dry. “Oh.” Jim was almost disappointed, “That was fast.”

“Wet clothes.” Sherlock makes a face of disgust, kicking them over to the door, dropping the used towel next to them, “Hotel agreed to put them through a wash cycle if we call room service when we’re ready.” He sat down on the bed, tossing an arm over his eyes. A subtle offer of privacy, one Jim gladly took.

Not that he minds. It’s just skin. Regardless, he slips into the robe quickly, clothes sopping onto the floor. “Ick.” He sneers, carrying them a foot from his body, dropping them atop Sherlock’s. He shuffles back to where he stood, hesitating as he debated sitting on the unoccupied mattress, or beside Sherlock. 

Neither was safer, delaying his decision by calling up to the front desk. “Order some wine.” Sherlock murmurs as Jim picks up the phone.

The question of _why_ immediately pops into Jim’s mind, but what is the use other than to scrutinize his motives? Sounded nice to unwind with after the day they’d had. 

Ten minutes later their clothes are whisked away, Sherlock pouring out two glasses of Merlot. “Cheers.” He says, sitting down on the bed and handing one over to Jim. The smaller man joins him, clinking their glasses together, “Cheers.” 

They sip in a welcome silence, letting the air destress. Warmth. Comfort. Company. “So…” Sherlock swirls his glass, “What _don’t_ you know about me?”

Jim blinks, wetting his lips, “Everything. You’re good at hiding in plain sight.”

“Oh, don’t be boring.” Sherlock scolds, “You know plenty. Collectively, more than anyone else in the world.” 

“Boring?”

“Yes, _boring_.” The detective takes a sip, “I shouldn’t have to point out how much of my personal life I’ve walked you through.”

“A maze?” Jim quirks a brow. _A harkening back to his childhood_ , he’d learned, _perhaps I should put more weight on that fact alone._

“A _robbery_ , for starters.”

Jim hums, “In _your_ world, I suppose that’s significant.” Finishing off his wine, he’s not exactly sure if he’s desperate to drink, or just trying to hide his oversight. How many people did the detective woo? More than Jim ever had. But how many people did the detective woo with _crime?_ Snapshots of his passions beyond the prestige. “But it’s almost a daily occurrence for me.” 

“Are you saying I’m unimpressive?” He puts on an expression of offense, too cartoonish to be sincere.

“No…” Jim quickly pours himself another helping, “I’m saying my skills at flirting and decoding you need some work… though you could stand to be more mischievous.”

“I’ll work on it if you will.” Sherlock raises his half-empty glass.

“I’ll drink to that.” _Clink_. 

Time passes quickly. They think of turning on the television when they run out of things to talk about, but that never happens. Jim begins to understand more of Sherlock’s stand-offish nature, though it was all steeped in hidden gems about the Holmes family (that Jim might’ve used as blackmail someday, if he weren’t so attached to _this_ one). Sherlock learns Moriarty’s middle name is “Clovis,” a fact Jim had tried hard to suppress.

Three empty bottles between them later, Jim tips his head, resting it on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Mm…” He purrs, curling around his torso, “I had a good time today…”

The detective carefully sets the glasses on the nightstand. As carefully as he can with unsteady hands and vision beginning to cross. “Even with the deluge?” He asks, snuggling in to Jim, “That’s surprising.”

“Doesn’t matter… was with you.” He turns his face, pecking at Sherlock’s cheek. His face was hot, the beginnings of a blush burning on his cheeks. Then again, the blood rush might’ve had a lot to do with the alcohol. 

“Sweet of you.” Sherlock is somewhat mistrusting — he knew it, of course. As Jim had once pointed out, if only in jest, they were _made_ for each other. The problem, consistently, was getting Jim to admit it in any form. At the kiss, he expects Jim to immediately turn away, but he doesn’t.

In Sherlock’s peripheral vision, he stares, as if expecting something more. He turns his head slowly, mouths the width of a sheet of paper away. “Jim…” He licks his lips, “May I kiss you?” 

Yet again, he isn’t answered. Jim closes the gap, his warm, oft-timid lips now yielding to Sherlock’s. It’s feverish, smoldering, blisteringly hot when mere hours ago it’d been freezing. Jim’s brain feels as if it’s floating away, so light with carefree bliss.

His body is heavy, guts crawling with butterflies, elated, awash with chemicals. _Oxytocin. Serotonin_. Jim notes distantly. Heavier still when Sherlock rolls his weight on top of him, pressing their bodies together, separated only by thin robes. For once, Jim isn’t afraid of what might happen — in fact, he feels almost _too_ calm. His hands caress the sides of Sherlock’s face, clumsily stroking down to his hips. 

The kiss turns sloppy, which Sherlock took as a good sign, flying high himself. A release of desperation. Nuance and grace be damned. Tongues loll together, saliva pooling around their mouths. Unbridled, it seems they may _finally_ move past-

Jim’s lips slacken, ceasing movement altogether. His neck goes limp in Sherlock’s grasp. 

Sherlock, finally suspicious, steadies himself, lifting up to find his partner’s eyes shut, lips still hanging open. “… Jim?” Sherlock asks, on the off-chance things might start up again.

A tiny snore escapes his trachea.

Sighing, he sits up, the room immediately lurching away. _Both had a hair too much…_ he thinks, a curiosity needing to be satiated. He turns at the waist, palm landing on Jim’s hipbone. He inches it over, lightly poking at the crotch-area of his companion’s closed robe.

 _Nothing_. He internally grumbles, checking once more. _Completely flaccid._ Somewhat disheartening, the idea that the kiss did so little for him… _but alcohol is a depressant. It doesn’t necessarily indicate revulsion._ He reminds himself, getting up shakily, grabbing the comforter off the other bed, tossing it over the both of them.  


	15. Good Morning?

A soft glow surrounds Jim's head, not quite able to open his eyes yet. He’d been dreaming, but as he slips into consciousness, he can't remember what about. Something about mazes, kisses, monsters, magic — the sort of fairytale he might read to a child. Parts of it felt very real, but as he wakes, the shadows of what he remembers seem positively ridiculous.

There is no humor in memory, pushing out fantasy in favor of shame. What happened last night? It’s all a blur. In that same vein of questioning, where was he? Trying not to jerk awake, he takes three large breaths, opening his eyes, only to find Sherlock sitting at the standard desk of a hotel room, reading something on his mobile. 

It’s starting to come back. The hard clatter of rain still paints the windows, from what little he can hear from the bed.

“Good morning.” The taller man says, a slight, wistful smile on his face, “Sleep well?”

It seems too formal a greeting considering the situation they were in. Jim notices Sherlock is dressed again in his clothes from yesterday — meaning Jim’s were around here somewhere, the Irishman practically naked under his robe. “Morning.” He replies neutrally, sitting up and scanning around for his clothes.

“Hanging in the bathroom.” Sherlock answers, setting his phone down, standing up to retrieve them. He is only gone for a moment, returning with an armful of clothes, setting them at the foot of the bed, “I didn’t want them to wrinkle.” 

“Thank you.” Jim reaches for them, keeping his body mostly covered by blankets, suddenly shy. _Which is illogical,_ he thinks, slipping off the dressing gown, letting it gather at his waist as he continued to nest in the duvet, _We were perfectly fine like this last night_. 

Last night. That he can barely remember. They had kissed for a good amount of time. Then everything went black. If they _had_ slept together… “Did we…?” Jim asks, throwing on his t-shirt, trying to hide any bit of his face whilst he speaks. 

“Of course not.” Sherlock lightly snaps, folding his arms, “There’s a _wide_ line between taking advantage of ‘mild tipsiness,’ and being _smashed_ to the point of having no consent _whatsoever_ with an unconscious partner. Both are _wrong_ , but the second option falls completely outside of the gray area I’m willing to work in.” 

Letting out a sigh of relief, Jim lets go of the covers. In some removed, twisted part of his brain, that peace is contradicted by a thought. _If only we had…_ He thinks. _If only we had… if only what? Would I feel less nervous about it to begin with? Or would I be entirely disgusted?_ The former being the best case scenario, the latter almost certainly would’ve ruined sex forever, “You often work in the _black_ , dear Sherlock.”

“Work is different than my personal life.” He shrugs, “And before you say it: I consider my personal life — and the morals that go alone with it — separate from my romantic one.” 

“Such a gentleman.” 

“I’m not asking for a pat on the head.” 

Jim hadn’t tried to be facetious. The detective is still standing at the foot of the bed, glaring. It’s clear he’s _upset_ , but the details of _why_ … the smaller man could guess. He stood up, pulling on his jeans, “I didn’t mean to imply you would ‘take advantage.’ I’m sure you really are a knight of honor and valor.” Sincere or not, it comes out sarcastic as hell. 

Sherlock looks as if he’s been struck across the face, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to retaliate in kind. “Apologies.” He forces the word out, spitting it as if it were a burning acid on his tongue, “For everything.” 

Jim furrows his brow, _Everything?_  

His silent question is answered quickly, “Every time I _think_ I understand what’s going on — that I get some indication our attraction is mutual, you pull away.” He sniffs, picking up his socks and sliding them on, back to Jim as he sits on the mattress, “And while I’m comfortable in asserting you _do_ return my affections, it’s simply not enough, as I don’t have the emotional wherewithal to be rejected at every turn.”

“Are you leaving?”

“The room is paid for, not that it matters to your infinitely wealthy sensibilities.” Isn’t _that_ the entire truth of the criminal? No matter what Sherlock does, he feels as if it’s nothing Jim wants or needs. He is the man who has _everything_ he wants, and if he doesn’t yet, he will find a way. 

However, Sherlock offers himself freely, to no avail. In such obvious, bold-faced terms, it’s clear that the detective, at least in private life, isn’t on Jim’s short list.

“Sherlock — ”

“ _What?_ ”  

Jim inhales sharply. It’s clear he’s hurt the taller man’s feelings, and maybe an apology is warranted. He _hadn’t_ meant to fall asleep. But the look in his eyes puts the criminal reflexively on the defensive, “I’m not running after you.”

“And I’ll never expect it.” Sherlock kicks into his shoes, disappearing from sight. 

Jim hears the door, and the sound of it shutting roughly, taking the detective away. 

The Irishman sits in the room until check-out, hoping he might return. He reviews what he might’ve said, if he’d only taken a few breaths before lashing out. However, the outcome will always be the same, no matter the scenario. 

For some reason, he keeps thinking of their reconciliation back in Russia. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't particularly enjoy writing chapters like these — I feel like very little happens, excitement-wise, and I hate it when they fight D: BUT I think it's very important to establish they are human and have relationships just like anyone else. And Jim, in this AU, hasn't had relationships like this before. They're both learning, but he's got a lot of catching up to do, romantically. 
> 
> Don't worry. There is a case next chapter :)


	16. What’s Opera, Sleuth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is a reference to an episode of Looney Toons, in which the final line is, "Well, what did you expect in an opera — a HAPPY ending?"
> 
> Read at your own risk, my loves.

It’d been five weeks, and Sherlock hadn’t made any attempt to renew contact with Moriarty. Jim is too stubborn to text first, knowing this most likely fed into the fallacious idea that he _didn’t_ want the man. _That beautiful, ignorant man._  

In the meantime, Moriarty does his best to keep his crimes far out of any Holmeses’ view. If it truly ends here, he wants a clean break.

But as he waits for Sherlock’s initiative, Jim gets a nasty reminder. An email from the laboratory staff, five words splayed across his screen. 

 

**Your order is ready, sir.**

 

It takes him a moment to remember what it is. Confused, he opens the email properly. _Why_ was he having a synthetic gem grown? It usually took about six weeks, though he hadn’t put a note in his calendar, nor did he have any angry clients waiting on it.

As he reads through the specs, and sees a picture of the finished product, he recalls. A large hunk of pink diamond. It’s a _personal_ purchase. 

Swearing aloud in an empty apartment was never quite as satisfying as a crowd of people — an air of offense and shock always lightened the criminal’s mood. 

Well, first thing’s first: to go through with the crime or not? The gem itself is not the end goal, nor is it the finishing touch for the gift. A gift for a man he may or may not ever speak to again. 

It will be an awful lot of effort, but Moriarty eventually talks himself into setting the events in motion. Even if Sherlock never sees it, the treasure itself is worth a hefty amount of influence and favor. He texts the lab, transferring the payment and bribe money, releasing the gem into one of his lieutenant’s careful hands. 

That was the easy part. The more emotionally distressing part dealt with whether or not Jim would ever be in a _sentimental_ mood over Sherlock ever again. 

More than anything, Jim decides he needs to take his mind off of it. He goes to his office and opens his laptop. Every day he gets dozens upon dozens of emails he doesn’t bother with: jobs too small, too cheap, too simple, or whatever other criteria he filters for that day. 

Right now, however, he just needs some pawns to push. _Anything, anything… Ah._ Something inconsequential. A minor smuggling rig up, the supplies were halted by some suspicion, and currently holed up in the crawlspace beneath the Royal Opera House.

_Perfect_ , Jim replies with the plan, to have the buyer pick up the cargo himself. After tonight’s show. _Carmen_ , he notes, then decides it might be an excellent distraction, as well as a good excuse to check the place out.

He gets up and stretches, a bit giddy for a reason to get all dressed up and _not_ think about Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Giving a cursory inspection of the place as his ID is checked for will-call, Jim sees it. Sees _him_.

Sherlock Holmes. In a tuxedo. So many questions followed that, not the least of which was “am I being followed?” Or would it be stalking? Something perfectly acceptable when they were still arch-nemeses, not so much now that they were… whatever they were. _What are we, really?_

But even _that_ question paled in comparison once the tall gentleman’s attention is caught by a lady. And then his interest is _held_ , kissing her hand and —oh. _He was meeting her here._ The back of Jim’s neck began to sizzle, mouth going dry, drooping open in incredulity, all mind power now focusing on the new problem.

This woman. Who was she? Straight brown hair, tall, blue eyes, thin, clad in subtle (yet expensive) jewelry and a deadly crimson dress, sleek to her form. 

She could just be a colleague. 

A colleague. A very _pretty_ colleague. That the detective is walking arm-in-arm with. Whispering in his ear and both giggling. Smirking. _Flirting_ , from what he can see. 

Aside from a meddling doctor, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have colleagues. Jim’s brain only stalled on making the connections because it didn’t _want_ to accept the fact that Sherlock Holmes was on a _date_. _Here_. 

Oh no. 

Moriarty tries his best to avoid being spotted — eyes forward, head down as he paid — to avoid Sherlock’s hawk-like gaze. But as the attendant hands him his ticket, Jim knows it’s far, far too late, a mess of curls too close in his peripherals for comfort.

“Jim!” Sherlock calls in that beguiling voice. Like butter wouldn’t melt on his devilish tongue, “So good to see you. What brings you here?” Moriarty steps away from the counter, walking with as much dignity as possible to where Sherlock and the woman stood.

“The usual.” Then, remembering Sherlock’s “guest,” he adds, “Patron of the arts and such.” He shouldn’t have been so straightforward with his nefarious intentions, but Jim, in that very moment, feels something akin to _all-consuming jealousy_. 

It made Jim physically sick. Feeling as if his stomach were bleeding into his knotted intestines, literal vomit couldn’t be counted out as a possibility. 

He should leave. But he is glued to the spot, as if watching a speeding train about to run over his damsel. It was far, far too late to stop it, so he might as well indulge this morbid curiosity, no matter the scars it would leave on his heart. 

“Ah, yes, introductions.” Sherlock nods, casting a sultry look at the woman, “Dominika, this is my acquaintance, James Zucco.” 

The shorter man took the thin hand offered to him, shaking it warily. Two offensive things in that sentence, he wondered how the detective had managed it. James. Zucco. It was meant to protect his identity, yes, but to diminish him down to _that_ inconsequential mask…

And _acquaintance._ Acquaintance. At least _enemy_ implied some sort of passion. _Nemesis_ equated them. But _acquaintance._ So removed. So impersonal. So _not_ what they were. 

“James?” Sherlock’s voice knocks him out of his internal diatribe. 

“Yes?”

“This is Dominika.” His adoring eyes hadn’t left her the entire time, “My esteemed colleague.”

A purely first-name basis, then. _Esteemed colleague,_ and Jim got _acquaintance._ “Pleasure.”The criminal says somewhat belatedly. 

The woman smiles indulgently, and Jim recognizes something in her look. 

_Pity._ _Christ, am I really that obvious?_  

“We should probably find our seats.” She says, a strain in her voice. Jim can’t quite place her accent, though it sounds vaguely Slavic. 

Is she being merciful to a jilted ex-lover? Or was it an unconscious realization that the air would get rather uncomfortable, rather quickly, if she were to stay? “Excellent idea, show is about to start.” Sherlock nods, then finally looks at Jim, “Enjoy.”

Jim barely resists the urge to spit, “Piss off and die,” though as he waves them away, he wonders if it’d have been the most prudent action. A regret only deepened as he finds his second-tier box seat is _right above_ the lovely couple.

Jim feels as if he’s suffocating. Even as the opening number boomed into life, flooding his head with classical French, he couldn’t stop _glancing_ over. It would probably be classified as _staring_ , since in the darkness, only illuminated by the distant stage lighting, he has to really focus to make out any details. 

They seem focused on the performers. They aren’t touching, hands in their own laps. Good. Maybe not that friendly after all. Despite the fact this never changes, not five whole minutes pass between examinations. 

Intermission couldn’t have come _sooner?_ Jim felt as if five hours had passed before the hall lights began to glow into life. 


	17. Regarding Bizet and Boners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Sheriarty Week prompt is just "Free," and I naturally have problems when just coming up with a one shot idea by itself, so in the meantime, enjoy this next chapter!

The men’s lavatory had a lounge. Once used for a social smoke (mostly cigars), now boasted being a non-smoking area, as demonstrated by the sign outside the door. 

Jim, desperate for some air, made his way over sluggishly, making sure Sherlock was nowhere in sight. But even before he could make it into the lounge, the smell of cigarettes met his nose. 

Really, he should’ve seen this coming. _The nerve of that man…_ Because honestly, who _else_ could it be? 

“Smoking is what killed Bizet, don’t you know?” Jim tuts as he closes the door behind him. _Fortune favors the brave, grab the bull by the horns, etc…_ Though it occurs to him that he hadn’t studied much of bullfighting to know if that was actually a smart tactic.

“I’m _honoring his memory_.” Sherlock mocks softly, blowing smoke at the embossed, superfluous “No Smoking” sign on the wall. 

“What? Was he _also_ an immature wannabe rebel?” 

The detective’s eyebrows shoot up, his attention clearly caught. Stunning enough that he took a moment, ashing some into the pearly sink, “If I were _immature_ , I might point out that you said you ‘wouldn’t run after’ me.”

“I’m not ‘running after,’ I’m just curious.” _You didn’t have to run away… to her._

“I see.” He replies, a moment of silence hanging between them as he takes a long, thoughtful drag, scanning Jim’s underlying scathing expression. He didn’t _owe_ the shorter man anything, certainly. They hadn’t exactly been steady, so a break-up declaration didn’t seem necessary, but… considerations had to be made for how inexperienced his ex-partner was. 

“Did you know…” Sherlock begins, sighing heavily. _Oh, being the mature one…_ “That people in pairs are less noticeable? It’s part of a prejudice called ‘singlism,’ which describes an inherent mistrust or judgement of _single_ people.” He might’ve liked to drag Jim’s _obvious_ jealousy out a bit longer, but that would be cruel. 

“Your point?”

“The point _is_ , that if you’re trying to blend in, or get eyes to pass you over in such a high-profile venue, you should appear to be part of a heterosexual couple.” He shrugs, stubbing out his smoke and tossing it in the bin, “It’s boring and mundane to be married… but being alone will draw attention.”

Such a lengthy explanation, implying it was important. 

 _Implying I’m an idiot_. “Oh.” Jim says simply. _She_ is a distraction, then. Meant to pull the eye, or ward off suspicion. 

“Ah, that reminds me.” Sherlock muses aloud, as if forgetting Jim’s presence. He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small black flashlight, twirling it once between his fingers, “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“And where would that be?”

“Somewhere dark, I imagine.”

Jim scowls, “Back to your date? The lights are still on in the theater.”

“As nice as your jealousy is for my self-esteem, I’m on a schedule.” Sherlock grins, “So either come with me or don’t, but hurry up, if I wait, people might notice more than just the cigarette smell.”

Watching Sherlock stalk past, Moriarty is livid. The detective had pulled the entire first part of his con, his plan, _right in front of Jim_ , and he’d been so consumed with jealousy that he hadn’t _noticed_ until it’d been spelled out. 

“Where are you going?” The criminal asks as he catches up. 

“Intermission’s almost over.” Sherlock says simply, heading back into the theater. Some people had begun to trickle back in, but not many. Regardless, people never notice _anything_ , so the detective powers on with his violation of rules, heading backstage.

Jim still follows like a lost duckling, forgetting that he’s following his ex to a dark, secluded area. “Sherlock, really, what are we- ” 

“Hold your questions for a moment, if you would be so kind.” Sherlock asks politely, pulling the curtain, both of them disappearing behind it. He grabs Jim’s hand, leading him along, feeling his way across a wall with the other (holding the flashlight, which is left purposefully off) in almost total darkness.

Moriarty is thankful for the shadows, almost certain he’s blushing. He hears a metallic _click_ , the turning of a doorknob. Jim is pulled forward, shoulders grazing a wooden frame. In even _darker_ accommodations now, he stands still, taking in a damp odor. 

The door shuts, and the flashlight pops on, illuminating what Jim now sees to be the landing at the top of a staircase. _Basement?_  

Sherlock pays the criminal’s bewilderment little mind, tiptoeing down the stairs, testing each one for creaks before proceeding. Jim mimics the method, still unsure if he was in any real danger. The taller man sticks close by, making sure there was enough light for both of them to get down without injury.

As Jim reached the last step, Sherlock began shining his light on the floor, sweeping, searching for something, “Alright… questions.” He murmurs, but it wasn’t an urgent whisper.

 _Safer to talk_ , Jim assumes, “Yes… what are we doing?” He repeats, getting quite annoyed. _You already knew what I was going to ask._

“Looking for a false floor panel.”

“Why are we doing that?”

“‘We’ are doing so because you followed me.” Sherlock muses, “And I’ll answer why _I_ am doing it later.”

 _That isn’t very helpful_. And it eliminated Jim’s entire line of questioning that wasn’t _personal_. Pausing to play with the buttons on his cuffs, he gives in, “And Dominika?” 

“ _Ms. Kratides…_ ” Sherlock corrects, “Is a highly-trained assassin- ” 

“Dominika Kratides?” Jim scowls, trying to figure _that_ cultural mishmash out-

“ _Sophia._ ” Sherlock further corrects, meandering further from Jim in his scan, “She had to maintain some anonymity due-” 

“Then why is she here?” _She’s Greek, then._ Explained her less-than-masterful disguise, though it was impressive if it was a last-minute rendition- 

“ _Because_ — if you’ll let me finish this time — ” Sherlock squats down, beginning to press and feel around on the ground, lightly knocking, listening for something, “The cargo you’re trying to get to the buyers…” He lightly _aha!_ s and punches down lightly, a panel popping up with the force. It’s pushed aside, a large crate underneath, “Rightfully belongs to _her_.”

“How did you know about- ” Jim begins, heat rising in his throat. Foiled _again,_ manipulated by his infatuation with the detective. 

It was Sherlock’s turn to interrupt, “I didn’t. But as my brother often says about _coincidence_ …” He stands up, leaving the crate undisturbed, rounding on Jim. Startled, the shorter man backs away, only to find his back in contact with a wall. Sherlock approaches, bodies within an inch of touching, nearly flush against each other. “The universe is rarely so lazy.”

Jim _squeaks_ , the detective’s hand snaking between them, palm pressing against the criminal’s crotch, which he’d only _just_ noticed had taken some interest in the scene. 

“R-right here?” Surprised or not, Jim tries not to be _terrified._  

Sherlock presses against him, and his heart leaps. Seemed… horrifying, yet perfect, given the circumstances. 

Then the detective backs away, wearing a look so smug in the wisps of the electric light that it almost brings Jim back to reality, “Of course not. _That_ would be inappropriate.” He smirks, “This was just proof of concept.”

Tricked. Manipulated. Dragged through the motions of _feelings_ , only to have Sherlock win. Again. “So. You and Sophia…?” Jim figures that since he’d already _lost_ , he might as well take advantage of learning all he could.

“Funny enough, she came to me looking to get closer to _you_.” Sherlock huffs, pulling out his mobile, “I told her there is no better way than through a man’s nemesis.” 

“Is she aware we _aren’t_ close?” Jim folds his arms protectively over himself, chilly now that the tension had been broken. 

“Well, I tried that angle, but then she informed me of some rumors that had been floating about in London’s underbelly…” He sends off a text message, relaying that her crate is still safe, “We’re something of a speculative couple, how we’ve been carrying on. The not-so-secret meetings, gifts, flirtations, the long periods of post-break-up silence… you see where she might get the wrong idea?” 

Jim wet his lips, “What does she want?”

“I don’t think she really cares to reveal us… but she will definitely use it to leverage a job interview.”

The criminal claps a hand to his forehead, dragging it down his face, “Good assassins are so hard to find…” 

“I’ll let her know how to get into contact with you… she doesn’t know you’ve already met.” Sherlock goes back to the stairs, beckoning Jim back up as music flared above them, “Intermission’s over. Too late to find our seats again and remain polite citizens, I’m afraid.”

 _And we’ll have to be real clever about getting beyond the curtain._ Yet another well-thought-out excuse to get them alone, “Then what do we do?”

“I’ve got some ideas.” 


	18. It’s All Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for my brief hiatus. I didn't know it was going to happen, and I've been having a rough time with it. I won't weigh you down with the details, but I feel confident that I should be back to posting stories and chapter updates with some regularity again. 
> 
> There is a lot of fluff and some angst in this chapter. It was healing to write, and I hope it brightens your day just a little bit. Until next time :)

They’d caught a cab back to St. Bart’s (which the criminal had thought an odd choice), Sherlock sneaking them both in through the basement door.

Four flights of stairs later, the detective was picking the lock to the roof access door. “When you said you had _ideas_ , I didn’t exactly have this in mind…” Jim says, shivering slightly. Concrete walls that the building didn’t bother to heat, the night air just on the other side of the metal, did no favors for the lightweight suit he’d chosen for the opera. 

“And what do you think _this_ is?” Sherlock replies, turning the knob and casually leaning in, door swinging open. A burst of cold juts in, Jim stiffening as he adjusted, walking out as smoothly as possible.

“Besides mild trespassing, not entirely sure.” A faint slam tells him that Sherlock came to join him. Another sign: a warm hand entwines with his left, pulling him forward, “Though, if I may point out, ‘trespassing’ is a quite tame crime to hang out for — next to grand larceny and possible espionage, of course.”

“I agree.” Sherlock rejoins, stopping once they’d reached the edge of the roof, shins butting into the parapet. In a fluid motion, he lowers and hefts his legs off the side, dangling over the edge. Jim raises his eyebrows in disbelief, flattening out his visage,  _Such trust._

“Yes, yes, you could push me off right now.” Sherlock gave their fingers a squeeze, beckoning for Jim to sit beside him, “But even if I _didn’t_ have a good chance of taking you with me, I’d still rely on the fact it’d be such a _boring_ murder for you to commit, that you’d never do it.”

 _Sound enough logic._ Jim notes, loathe to be boring, especially opportunistically, _Where’s the fun when the universe just_ hands _something to you?_ With another shiver, he joins him, hands resting together in the small gap between their bodies. “So why are we up here, if not for a quick spot of murder?”

“I _was_ hoping the sky would be clear.” The detective looks up in an exaggerated movement. The sky was inky black in places, grey with a flush of yellow mist in others. “But tonight, London is truly at its finest: light pollution and cloudy skies.” 

“This is what I picture the color of misery to look like.” Jim replies deadpan as possible, but can’t hide a flash of a smile, “Thought space was irrelevant?”

“It is.” Sherlock grins. Parts of him wish Jim hadn’t read the blog, but it was a fun reminder that the criminal cared in his free time, “But not to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve done my research.” He nudges Jim’s shoulder with his own, “ _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_ , complicated read. Hard to find, too. Completely out of print.”

“You _could_ read it?” Jim quirks a brow, prepared to feel _awe_. Finding it in the academic library at Stonyhurst would’ve been easy enough, but the material contained within it? “My so-called ‘contemporaries’ at the time criticized only the first ten pages, citing the rest as ‘esoteric gibberish.’” They could only _understand_ the first nine, gave up at ten. 

“Admittedly, I couldn’t do it alone. Or all at once.” Sherlock shrugs, “Acquaintances in the mathematics department at Leeds, and I took it in blocks over time.”

“Was that difficult for you?” Jim smirks, “Recognizing a deficit in your knowledge, and asking someone else for assistance?”

“Cheeky.” Sherlock huffs, “But no. It’s like asking to occasionally use or dismantle one of Molly’s cadavers — she has something, I don’t. I amend the situation as needed.”

“So… we’re supposed to be looking at the stars?”

“Seems the weather opposes my attempt at apologetic courtship… pity.” 

“Apologetic?” Courtship, both failed and successful, was now to be expected. But  _reparation?_  That could be cause for alarm.

“Yes. But the actual words ‘I’m sorry’ will probably never escape me with any sincerity. For anything. _Ever_.”

“Well… that flaw aside, what are you _not_ apologizing for?” 

Sherlock sighs, looking down at their hands, “I overreacted. I felt rejected, but that does not excuse my actions. What’s worse is that after I realized my mistake, mere  _hours_ after I left, I didn’t try to talk to you properly.”

“Overreacted?” Jim furrows his brow, wondering- “ _Oh._ ” He swallows, _“_ At the hotel. What didn't happen.”

“Mm.” Sherlock shrugs as nonchalantly as possible, “It bothers me, that we _haven’t_ , and that you don’t want to. But it’d do a lot more than _bother_ me if…” 

“Right.” Jim stills, looking out into the city lights, “It doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ \- well. I don’t _know_ , and I feel like we’ve had this conversation before and- ”

“Let me ease your misplaced guilt.” Sherlock interrupts, “Ultimately, whether we are intimate or not doesn’t _matter_.” 

“Seems to matter.” Jim quips venomously, perhaps more bitter than he'd initially assessed in himself.

“Yes. And that’s why I’m remorseful.” Sherlock murmurs, trying not to get defensive, “Sex a _perk_ , not a requirement. Neither is our romantic entanglement. However, I thought relieving the obvious sexual tension was the most expedient answer.”

“Answer to what?”

“Besides the _obvious_ , if groping you wasn’t a clear enough _indicator…_ ” He scratches his forehead with his free hand, “It’s complicated.”

Jim taps his heels against the stone of the building, craning his neck minutely upward to look at the taller man, “I’ve got time.”

“For me?”

“For this conversation, at least.” He squeezes his fingers, “I haven’t decided if we’re back together yet.”

 _Yet you followed me._ Sherlock scoffs, but lets his thought go, _Best not to sully a good result by gloating_ , “You’ll probably mock me.”

“I’m sure worse has happened to you.”

Sherlock pauses, eyes flitting back up, locking on Jim’s. He grins, hand coming up to cup his jaw, fingers splaying over his cheek, thumb running over his cheekbone, “Your eyes remind me of cassiterite.”

Taken aback, Jim is too shocked to flinch away, blood flushing up in his face, “Is that relevant to your point?”

“Yes and no. It’s mostly a stray observation of beauty.” He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Jim’s forehead, lingering a moment before retracting, “I don’t believe in _fate_ , in the traditional sense.” His voice drops an octave, also into a whisper, as if it were a secret. As if anyone could even hear them on the roof, “But I can observe, empirically, that we are _bound_.” 

The words don’t make sense. “Empirical” and “fate” don’t belong in the same paragraph. Jim narrows his eyes, rolling his neck, putting some weight into Sherlock’s hand, finding support.

“In a way, we’ve always been _together,_ since it mattered.” Without an answer, Sherlock continued, “You killed Carl. I _knew_ you killed Carl, or at least _someone_ did. ‘You’ became a very broad term, as I don’t believe in coincidence either. I knew that eventually I’d find a lead that’d take me back to my first cold case. The _first_ case.”

“And from that, _you_ learned that your genius could be applied to crime; I learned that my genius could be applied to _finding_ you.” 

Jim’s mouth had gone dry. It was all _true_ , made a certain sense that he was surprised he hadn’t put together. But then again, _he_ didn’t believe in fate, “And you found me.” 

“Caught in each other’s proverbial gravity.” Sherlock gestures upward, “Binary star system.”

At that, Jim has to crack a laugh, nearly doubling over, “Dear god, you really _don’t_ know anything about space.”

Sherlock is at least a good sport, half-sticking out his tongue, “I never tried to hide it.”

“When two things are of the same mass and composition, they orbit each other, yes.” Jim explains, “But binary stars orbit each other for a little while… and then one begins to vampirically feed off of the other. Ends in explosions.”

“Most great things do.” 

Jim chuckles, rolling his eyes, “Fair enough.”

“Is it at least pretty and terrifying?”

“Yes.” 

“Then it’s still an accurate metaphor.”

“Aren’t you clever…” The smaller man mutters, but can’t help but steal a quick kiss. The reaction is immediate — giving life to a compulsion, breathing in lovely chemical rewards, getting _high_ off of such a radiant feeling.

Sherlock wet his lips, face dropping the moment he pulled away, “Jim…” 

 _Why the gloom?_ “I thought…” He bit his bottom lip. Had he misread the situation? “Was that okay?”

“Of course… it’s just… brings up a tidbit that I wanted to put off.”

“Can’t you still? If it’s hurtful, I think I’d rather enjoy a moment of bliss.”

“Normally I’d agree with you. And it isn’t necessarily _hurtful_ , but it does need to be said before we continue on.”

Jim frowns. “Nothing _needs_ to be said. I forgive you, we still like each other.”

“That’s exactly it.”

“Okay…?” A sense of foreboding or not, now Jim’s curious. A deadly affliction, but like the kiss, one he must satiate. “Out with it.”

Sherlock nods grimly, like a doctor about to give fatal news, “This will be the only time you ever hear me say this… and _don’t_ say it back.” He rests a finger over Jim’s lips, a look of intensity in his eyes, “Even _if_ you mean it. Find a different time, as I want there to be absolute clarity. No variables. Confirmed that you mean it, without the pressure of having to respond. Understand?”

Jim gave a single nod as Sherlock’s finger falls away. He didn’t _know_ what he was going to say, but the smaller man had a pretty fair guess. And already knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t reply: he didn’t _know_. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, almost breaking on the exhale, “I love you.”


	19. Rosé

_And what gives you the right to love me?_

Jim had wanted to say it, but didn’t. In fact, he hadn’t said anything at all, negative or otherwise. They’d sat there a moment or two longer, and then Jim got up. To his credit, he’d let Sherlock come with him, ride in the cab back to his place, paid, and kissed him goodnight. But still, not a word.

Sherlock didn’t text, didn’t bother Jim. The detective knew he went too far — Moriarty could appreciate that. 

That was a week ago. A thought circles his mind, like water going down a drain, trying to reach confirmation: _you don’t know me, because there is no “me.”_ James Moriarty, at his core, does not exist. He is a name, a face given to an amalgamation of personalities and aspects. Yet, not a single one is constant. Nothing _sticks_. 

So, in essence, Sherlock had told Jim that he was in love with _pieces_. 

Which is exactly why the criminal avoids things like _this_. 

However… doubt is a fickle friend. Doubt allows for speculation, and has more often than not saved Jim from stickier situations. _But…_ that ounce of skepticism rings true in his mind, _If it were possible to love_ all _of the pieces…_

Jim wishes he could have a single day of silence: answer the phone, talk to people, blast speed metal for all he cares, just a single day where his thoughts don’t inevitably turn to _Sherlock_. It isn’t guilt that keeps drawing his mind, but the single moment of audio, looping over and over.

_I love you._

In everything he does, he hears it. Intimidating a client? _I love you_. Making tea? _I love you_. Eating lunch? _I love you_. Cleaning a knife? Playing Poker? Catching a trans-Atlantic flight? Struggling with insomnia? 

Haunting. There is no word more appropriate. 

Sherlock had said he wouldn’t say it again, that Jim shouldn’t say it back. Unless he is sure, which he knows very well he _can’t_ be. 

So why does he want to? 

A week more, and it hasn’t gotten any better. Jim lays on his sofa, skimming through texts. There’s an online embezzlement formula about to kick in — the moment _anyone_ on Wall Street makes a sale — and brilliant as it is, of Jim’s own coded design, his eyes wander to the contact: _Prettyboy Detective._

His fingers move on their own, opening their conversation and typing whatever they pleased: 

 

**I have something for you. -JM**

 

Obviously, they want a response. It even takes Jim a moment to remember that, _yes_ , he’d had a gift made for him, wrapped and sitting mostly forgotten in his desk drawer. Maybe, _hopefully_ , that was the heart of the problem: out of house, out of mind. 

 

**A case? -SH**

 

****A delayed reply, suggesting the detective is either busy, or wants Jim to believe he’s busy. However, Sherlock’s part in this doesn’t matter.

 

**Something less metaphysical. -JM**

 

**A drop, then? -SH**

 

**No, silly. A gift. -JM**

 

**Should I expect it delivered? -SH**

 

Justified in being paranoid, or… hopeful? Sherlock appreciated cases more than fine wines, and doesn’t expect the latter from Jim. Especially outside their illicit rendezvous (which Jim had taught Sherlock not to count as consistent, by any means). 

But the criminal is feeling playful today.

 

**No. -JM**

 

**No? -SH**

 

**No. -JM**

 

Jim taps the top of the phone against his chin thoughtfully. They could meet up somewhere. He could drop by Sherlock’s place, not technically “delivery” so much as a friendly visit. 

 

**Come over. -JM**

 

**And where exactly is “over?” -SH**

 

Ah, yes — Jim forgot to tell him which flat he is staying at today, and seeing as he’d never _been_ … He should consider changing buildings. Back to the one Sherlock initially followed him to after the pool, somewhere he’d already seen, staunching the inevitable damage his betrayal would cost him.

This isn’t home. No, Sherlock has been “home.” _This_ is his headquarters, where all of the hard files are kept, stowed in a back room. His private servers are in his office, antiques, wines, jewelry, it’s all here. 

 

**144 Conduit St. -JM**

 

****_It doesn’t matter,_ Jim reminds himself, _Sherlock will be dead sooner or later._ The gamble is whether or not that would be soon enough. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock lets himself in. To be expected, of course, as even if no one suspects this could possibly be the home of “Moriarty,” eyes follow him everywhere. Even waiting a minute on the doorstep would be dangerous.

Or so Jim tells himself, so he doesn’t have to scold the detective for breaking in. 

The criminal had only moved to retrieve the box, setting it on the coffee table in front of him while he continued to lounge, thoughts too scattershot to focus on anything else. 

Sherlock closes the door behind him, walking directly into the living room, as if he had been there before. _As if he lives here as well. Cute._ Jim sits up, leaning back into the cushions, “Good day.” As always, the taller man looks well, scarf soft around his neck, coat crisp and pressed. A sullen, questioning look on his face. 

“Indeed.” He replies, hands in his pockets, not sitting down, posture stiff. “You’ve been well, then?”

“Of course.” Jim smirks, a small part of him lightening up at the sight of him. “You?”

“Lestrade’s unsolved cases haven’t been boring as of late.” 

“You’re welcome.” He isn’t sure where the flash of cheer comes from, but he can’t find it in himself to be _incensed_ over the previous slight. _All best intentions…_ Jim thinks, verging on bitterly. 

Sherlock wets his lips, “With me in mind, or is my meddling accidental?” 

“I believe you’re the one who said there is no such thing as coincidence.” 

The detective’s eyes wander, finally drawn to the box. The paper is black, matte finish, forcing it to be an unassuming hue. “For me?” He asks, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the armchair across from Jim. 

“Yes.” 

Unsure if there’s some trick or puzzle involved, Sherlock reaches forward, bringing the box to his lap as he sits. “It’s not going to explode, is it?” He asks, but then shakes his head, “No, no, that’d make quite the mess, and I doubt you allow a maid in here.” 

“Security risk.” Jim nods, sitting at attention, holding his breath, somehow nervous. 

The paper rips away into two neat halves (funny, Jim had always pegged the detective as someone who would gently peel away the tape. No matter.), revealing a carved, dark wood box, patterns of birds accented by silver leaf, sealed by a metal clasp. Sherlock blinks, trying to decide what the significance of it is.

“It’s merely a container.” Jim is quick to point out. A fancy container, but nowhere near as important as what’s inside. 

“Ah.” Still, Sherlock lingers a moment, eyes tracing over the shiny grooves. The clasp snaps open easily, opening the lid back to reveal a plush, navy pillow, cradling a large pink diamond. “Oh.” He tilts his head to the side, afraid to touch it directly, trying to appraise it. 

“182 carats.” Jim states, pleased with himself and Sherlock’s look of stunned awe, “One of the largest cut diamonds in the world.” 

“The Daria-i-Noor.” Sherlock is breathless, “How on Earth…?” Because _yes_ , one of the largest in the world, meaning it is- _was_ under some of the highest security mankind had to offer. Depending on which of the two gems there were of similar name, one kept alongside _crown jewels_ in the Middle East. 

“I have my sources.” Jim assures, “And no one even knows the real one is missing.”

“The lab.” Sherlock is quick to supply, “You grew a fake. Replaced it.” 

“It was due to be cleaned.” Jim nods, “The cleaner is now mysteriously rich, and will be keeping his mouth shut.” 

Diamonds, in themselves, aren’t worth much. Hard, yes, but there are more dense materials. The molecular structure is interesting, but that’s not what most prize it for. They’re not even that rare — there are places common people can pay to dig for them, and never come up empty-handed. Tanzanite is by far less “valuable,” yet they are only found in one place on the planet. But the significance of the gesture isn’t lost on Sherlock, made in the terms of an ordinary person, taken to the level of genius larceny. 

“Well…” Sherlock takes a moment to compose himself, shutting the box. Millions of dollars, and the possible start of a _war_ between his palms. “With a diamond this extravagant, I’m tempted to ask if you’re proposing to me.”

The corner of Jim’s mouth twitches up. “No.” He manages, somehow calm despite his insides melting. “It’s… it’s a reference to the Pink Panther.” 

Sherlock quirks a brow, setting the box down gingerly, “The what?”

Jim’s hand smacks over his mouth, running down his chin, “You don’t know- ” he begins, but stops himself. Of course Sherlock doesn’t. Poor, deprived Sherlock, who most likely wasn’t given the luxury of pop culture in his youth, and found no interest in it later in life. “We have to correct a wrong here.” He pats the seat beside him, fishing the remote out of the side of the sofa cushions. 

Sherlock, perplexed, isn’t exactly in the mood for television or silly shows. 

However, he finds himself walking over to the sofa anyway, testing his boundaries by curling an arm around Jim’s waist as he flips through his On-Demand services. 

The smaller man cuddles against his chest without question, pressing “play.” 

_Perhaps I don't love you, but you are mine._


	20. Breathe

“I…” Jim swallows, eyes darting nervously to the tile, “Why did you want this, again?”

“If you’re having second thoughts, we don’t have to.” Sherlock assures, twisting the tap, the steamy stream of water flowing into the tub stopping abruptly. The detective cards his slender fingers over the layer of floral-smelling bubbles, silently deeming the bath to be of perfect temperature. His hands came up, lingering over the buttons on his shirt, waiting for the final _okay_. 

“Not… exactly…” Jim shakes his head once, causing the candles on the sink, on the rim of the tub, the flames to blur in his peripherals. 

“Then…?” 

“It’s just- I’m- it’s not about _you_ …” Flustered. _Crap_. He’d promised himself he’d do better than that.

“Sex doesn’t happen on accident.” Sherlock points out, perching slightly at the edge of the porcelain tub, deep enough to be a jacuzzi. “And I don’t have to get in at all. I’m perfectly happy to wash you.” 

Jim grimaces slightly, “It _is_ about _me_.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrows, but then lets it go as it clicks. “If you’re feeling self-conscious, that’s what the bubbles are for.” He gestures to the opaque, white film over the water. “I won’t see a thing.” 

_It’s just crushingly vulnerable of a position._ Jim ponders, _Even if you’ll be in the same spot._ He hasn’t been naked in front of anyone since childhood. Back in school, after running, after swimming, he’d change in the bathroom stalls, shower at home. 

But he’s stripped in front of the detective before. Then was painted and bound up in linens — this couldn’t be much worse.  It was, however, still  _different_ , in the context of intimacy, rather than science. _But t_ _his time, I could run away_. He undoes his top button, fingers working slowly down the line.

Sherlock takes it as a sign to do so himself, albeit cautiously, watching Jim for any further sign of hesitation. Finding none, his shirt, trousers, belt and pants pool by his ankles, nudging them aside with his foot before slipping in to the silky bathwater, warm, bubbles hugging around him.

The shorter man doesn’t watch, suddenly quite interested in his own belt, the metal of the clasp clumsily opening in his hands.

“Turn off the lights?” Sherlock suggests.

Jim blushes, the implication of doing things in candlelight not lost on him. _However_ , he reasons as he hits the switch, the room now bathed in shadows, _Everything’s more flattering when obscured…_

He sheds his trousers, joining Sherlock’s, bunching together on the floor so easily. Jim breathes, nervous, thumb tucked under the elastic of his boxers, on the verge of being _exposed_. His protective instincts fight back, but he wins out, letting them drop.

As Jim looks back up, he’s noticed the detective has politely busied his eyes with the various bath products. 

“You have _three_ different types of body lotion.” Sherlock notes in mild amusement. 

“One of them was a gift.” Jim struggles with the urge to cover himself somehow, but couldn’t without being pathetically obvious. 

“Terrible gift, seeing as it’s plain-smelling, and your preferred scent is Cashmere.”

“It’s fresh.” Jim shrugs, daintily toeing into the water. It was tad colder than he usually liked, but _scalding_ isn’t for everyone. He gets in quickly, the less he could be seen, the better. 

Sherlock smiles, meeting Jim’s eyes, sitting across from him, obscured from the shoulders down. The tub is large enough that they could spread out comfortably, and wouldn’t ever have to touch. But that wasn’t the point. The detective had emphasized it was about _touching_. 

At Jim’s pace. 

He wades over slowly, until they’re side-by-side, one hip pressed against the other. Sherlock lets his palm float over, finding Jim’s, hand clasping over it gently. “Alright?”

Blushing again, thankful for the dim lighting, he nods, then leans his head over, resting against Sherlock. Maybe it’s the fact they’ve been “together” for (to Jim’s surprise estimation) almost a year now, but this, relaxing against him, is _easy_. 

Officially, it’s the first time his anxiety had been wrong. 

Sherlock reaches over to the bottle of body wash, squeezing some into his hand, disengaging his from Jim’s, rubbing his hands together to create suds. “Lean forward.” As Jim did, he began massaging his shoulders and neck, washing him leisurely. 

“I can do that myself.” Jim tries not to stammer, but closes his eyes, feeling soft, light, _relaxed_. It’s odd, since he’s never like this — always one disaster after another, some imbecile on some level of his web demanding- _oh_. “And I should be checking my mobile…”

“Neither of those sound like a very fun alternative.”

“For me or you?” But Sherlock’s hands slipped beneath the water, lightly rubbing down his sides, Jim moaning softly. 

“Both.” Sherlock says softly, voice dipping low, leaning forward, lips tenderly caressing Jim’s ear, causing the smaller man to shiver.

A compulsion, a whim pulses through his body, and he scoots back, resting in Sherlock’s lap. The detective, shocked by this, takes a moment to adjust, crossing his legs under Jim to better accommodate (and a little to avoid pressing his loins against him, which had, like usual, taken interest), arms curling around his waist. “Where’s this coming from?” 

“Don’t question it.” Jim warns softly, Sherlock washing his stomach in smooth circles.

“I’ll get your hair later then.” Sherlock kisses his nape, hugging him close. 

Jim swallows, letting his eyes fall shut. He tilts his head back, kissing Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you too.” Whether or not that’s true, and it most likely is, it feels right. 

The reaction is subtle, but Sherlock’s breath catches, grip tightens, resists the urge to ask _Really?_ with his beloved’s standing policy. He also doesn’t want to know if it’s a heat-of-the-moment declaration. Instead, he’s left speechless. 

Victory came in bite-sized doses, and Jim cherished them when he could. Even beyond that, in this moment, he feels special, _loved_ , and to return it… it’s so new. Unprecedented. Rather than attempt to wrap his mind around it, he grins in a slight tease, grabbing the soap, “My turn?”

Sherlock kisses the top of his shoulder, murmuring against the slick skin, “If you’d like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fluffy, but when fluff is earned, it is necessary! And they have worked through enough problems together for a break :)


	21. An Impossible Balance

They’d stayed until the water turned cold, mostly silent, communicating with touch. “Jim…” Sherlock murmurs, nuzzling Jim’s cheek, the latter now horizontal over his lap, cradled in his arms. “We should get out.”

Jim nods, opening his eyes, enough to see the candles had burned down to the last third, most of the bubbles melted away. He holds his hands up, making a face at the wrinkles on his fingertips. 

Sherlock kisses his forehead, easing Jim aside, stepping out to grab a towel. Plush, soft, probably unreasonably expensive. He dries out his hair, then holds it open for Jim. Probably unreasonable for the criminal to feel self-conscious again, after spending so long _naked_ in his arms, but he wishes Sherlock would get dressed before… 

Well. It’s not like it really matters. 

He gets out, reaching for the towel, but it’s not there, tossed over Jim’s head, Sherlock ruffling it over his hair for him. Embarrassing, slightly, harkening back to the affectionate types of things a mother would do. 

After they are sufficiently dry, Jim procures two robes. Purchased exclusively for him, so Sherlock’s came up short on his thighs, but it isn’t the worst sight Jim’s ever seen. Sherlock takes Jim’s hand back, lacing their fingers together, tugging him through the house, _leading_ him to the bedroom. 

Something of an ethereal quality, Jim feels as if the air is glowing. He lands on the bed, softer than he remembered, Sherlock lying next to him, hands still clasped. Cold moments ago, the skin against his is warm, just under a thin clammy veneer. 

Several hours later, Moriarty blinks awake — he can’t even remember being tired. Looking around, it’s dark, the sun had most likely set some time ago. Lonely too, an insuppressible twinge of sadness crossing over his heart as he feels the spot next to him is empty. _But not cold_ , he notes, sitting up properly. 

The movement frees up his ears, and he catches the slight sound of movement somewhere in the flat. A clink of glasses, followed by the boiling of water. _Hint enough_. 

Jim’s feet land on the icy wooden floor, forcing his steps into stiffness as he ambles into the kitchen, the faint glow of the fluorescents guiding him along. He stops at the doorframe, leaning against it, blinking to compensate for the sudden thrust into bright lights. “Morning…” 

Sherlock is pouring steaming water into two mugs, a tea bag in each, still in Jim’s robe. “My kind of morning, at least.” He replies, turning to face Jim with a soft grin, “I ordered dinner, hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me.”

“Not at all…” Jim mumbles, then lets his eyes pop open wide, “ _Oh_ , wait, you’re going to eat with me?” 

Sherlock freezes, mortified by such a simple statement, but the panic only lasts a second before Jim laughs. “Oh. Darling. I’m kidding.” 

The detective breathes out, mouth twisting into a barely-there scowl, “I made you tea and everything, and this is what I get?”

Jim hums, shrugging, walking over almost unconsciously, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s midriff, head resting on his shoulder, “What’s for dinner?” 

Taken aback, Sherlock’s ire wanes, hands folding together at the small of Jim’s back, “Ah… ordered Chinese. Having some of my homeless network pick it up so I don’t accidentally let anyone untrustworthy know even one place where you might be.” His thumbs massage tiny circles through the fabric. “Didn’t know exactly what you liked, so I ordered most of the menu.”

“Sounds perfect.” Jim kisses his lapel. “Won’t have to bother cooking for a while, or even calling for someone else to.” 

“Mm.” Sherlock gives him a slight squeeze of a hug, then letting go to fix up the tea, “Milk and sugar?” 

“Yes.” Jim nods, actually glad to be let go. He’d unofficially taken the day off, which meant he should’ve at least been checking in on his lieutenants. “Come get me if I don’t hear the door…” How had he forgotten his mobile? It hadn’t even crossed his mind when he woke up, too occupied with thoughts of the detective. 

Returning to his bedroom, closing the door behind him, he throws himself back on the mattress. Face down, he crawls up the sheets on his stomach, clawing clumsily in the dark for the drawer on his nightstand. Finding it, he opens it to grab his mobile, tapping in the code, wincing at the bright screen. 

Twelve missed calls, five from just _one_ of his commanders. Sixty-three unread texts. Jim didn’t have the time nor the patience to sort through every single one of them, so his eyes went to the earliest in the conversations list, noting this all began around 4pm, five hours ago. 

Meaning if it were a fixable issue, it’s long passed. _Damn_. 

Heart sinking, Jim reads. There were, and still are, several heists going on today. None of which Sherlock could’ve had any hand in personally, attentions mutually consumed (not that the detective did much to _prevent_ crime). 

But of course, of all the minor thefts, smugglings, forgeries, _anythings_ this could’ve been, it has to be worst possible: the Babylonian tablets. 

Months of planning, getting men on the inside — the ancient artifacts from the birth of civilization itself! — they’d only be on loan for a short time, even if all went smoothly. But no, tens of millions of quid, all down the drain with four words:

 

**We have a leak.**

 

The rest of the texts go on to tell a story of each layer of the plan crumbling, with one person being caught where they shouldn’t be, and the tablets having been moved to a safer, undisclosed location. But that didn’t matter, Jim rubs his face, pulling his hair in frustration, almost enough to scream. 

It’s almost worse that there was nothing to be done about the job — simply, all of his planning had been bested. Sabotaged by someone who grew a conscience, that apparently Moriarty hadn’t sensed. 

Adding insult to injury, twenty of his men are now missing. Either run off in cowardly abandon, or being interrogated. 

No one would give _him_ up, of course. Hardly anyone even knows he exists beyond a whisper. The problem remains _everyone else_. A machine can’t run without moving parts, and a web cannot stand when too many threads are snipped. 

Jim could, would rebuild once the damage could be properly assessed. However, his enemy… his enemy that could potentially be more clever than him. The enemy he knew, and had almost constructed himself: Mycroft Holmes. 

The Coventry project with Ms. Adler had been the beginning. Until then, the eldest Holmes had been largely uncaring about his presence, the ruining of _his_ plan marking him so definitively as a threat to national security. Overly ambitious, and for such little payout… it is something of a regret in Jim’s books, but no way to undo it.

Since then, the British government had begun sniffing, prodding, _prying_. And until recently, they’d had _nothing_ besides Sherlock’s insistence that “Moriarty” was more than a man. 

And now… now Sherlock neither helps nor hurts them. Only ever playing the game for his own means. Jim hit the phone against his forehead, having to remind himself his _boyfriend_ didn’t want him in jail.

Still. It’d be rather unsporting to ask the detective to back off for selfish means. Even if he feels like he’s drowning. 

A soft knock at the door pulls him back to reality. _No time to brood about work, personal life calls._

How much that made it seem like a choice scared the criminal. “Be right out.” He calls, swallowing back his revulsion. 

 

**Find it. Assess damage. Report back with news.**

 

Then, after a beat:

 

**Examples must be made.**


	22. Continuing On

Jim’s eyelids droop, curled over his desk. He turns off his lamp, groaning softly at the relief of darkness. It’d been days since he’d properly relaxed, even his dinner with Sherlock had been passively tense, and he’d barely concealed it.

Sleep. Right. He checked his mobile again, finding another bit of relief that the panic had died down. Captured agents had died, yes, information surrendered, plans _ruined_ … but he’d found stable ground again. A hiring freeze was in order, but he’d get to that eventually.

 _After_ sleep.

Standing up, he stretched out fully, hearing a few bones pop. _Great_. He winces, toddling slightly into the hallway, his trip warping in his mind, fuzzy as he lands on his mattress. A surge of pure _dread_ goes through him as his mobile chimes.

Begrudgingly, he peeks at his screen, only to see Sherlock’s name. He rolls his eyes, but reads the message anyway:

 

**I haven’t seen you lately. -SH**

 

The idea is sweet, as always, the detective occasionally letting Jim know of his importance, but not so often that it could possibly be construed as needy. As a result, he graces Sherlock with an immediate reply rather than pointedly ignore:

 

**Sleeping. Not now.**

 

**Pleasant dreams. -SH**

 

He passes out. The deep, death-like passing out of pure exhaustion.

 

* * *

 

Jim didn’t dream. All for the best, really, most of his dreams took some tragic turn, if they didn’t already start that way. Waking up, however, is still miserable. It’s bright, too harsh on his early-morning eyes. He pulls the comforter over his head, engulfing him in darkness anew.

A few more hours couldn’t hurt.

 

* * *

 

**I’ve been busy.**

 

Jim texts around 3pm, after he’s showered, had lunch, curled up in a blanket on the sofa, bag of chips propped against the cushions, within easy reach.

 

**So I assumed, but I didn’t mean you, physically, though that is also true. -SH**

**I meant your work. -SH**

 

**I said I was busy. Doesn’t always mean with work.**

 

**Ah. Well, whenever you’ve got a spare evening or two, I’d like to see you again. If that’s permissible. -SH**

 

**You’re always so polite about it.**

 

**I want to make it clear you may decline, for any reason. Always. -SH**

 

Jim rolls his eyes — of _course_ he could decline. Seemed a tad hand-holding to be so reminded.

 

**If the time ever comes, I’ll let you know.**

 

When Sherlock doesn’t reply, even an hour later, Jim worries, chewing on his pinkie nail. But it doesn’t take much scrolling to realize what the problem is: he hadn’t answered.

 

**Multiple evenings? What are you planning?**

 

**How am I supposed to surprise you if I just tell you what will happen? -SH**

 

**Fine. At least tell me how I should dress.**

 

**Casual and warm. -SH**

**It’s not raining this weekend, are you available? -SH**

 

**As much as I’ll ever be. Why does rain factor into it? We’re going outside?**

 

**Clearly. Or maybe it’s a feint to throw you off. -SH**

 

**Hm. Where are we meeting?**

 

**221B. I’ll drive. -SH**

 

**Not going to make this easy on me, are you?**

 

**Might even make you wear a blindfold. -SH**

 

**Don’t you dare.**

 

**Friday. Early as you can manage. -SH**

 

**Fine.**

 

* * *

 

Jim doesn’t bother knocking, he’d been expressly invited. Sure, it was five in the morning, but the exact phrasing was “early as you can manage.” Maybe he’d been in an aggressive mood, maybe there was some lingering resentment over Sherlock distracting him to the point of blowing a hole in his criminal empire. Whatever the reason, his goal is to _wake_ the detective, and not sweetly.

He’s got on a forrest green turtleneck, black jeans, a bag slung over his shoulder, containing his silk pajamas and a t-shirt for the next day (if it were really going to be an overnight endeavor).

The front door’s lock is easy enough to pick, even in the dark, and the stairs hardly creak. Not that John Watson or Mrs. Hudson are the overly observant type. No trouble at all, he hardly makes an effort to be sneaky. The door to the B flat is also not a problem, clicking open within a minute of applying the lock pick tools.

He strides in, remembering all too well the last time he’d been to the detective’s bedroom (to yell at him in anger, much worse than now), slight remorse of that day crossing his mind. Yet, vibing on annoyance and a thirst for revenge, he shoves the thought aside.

Jim opens Sherlock’s bedroom door, creeping in, shutting the door behind him with care, as the doctor _might_ hear and get curious about the detective possibly being awake. Especially since it’s still technically a workday.

His bag hits the floor with a soft _plop,_ finally allowing himself to cast his gaze around the room. The yellow glow of the outside street lamps peeked from behind the curtains, providing a crude silhouette of the slender body on the mattress, hiding beneath blankets.

Now that he is here, however, Jim isn’t exactly sure what his plan is. Shouting, clapping, making noise of any sort would be too loud, putting him at risk of detection from an unwanted third party. And shaking him just seemed _rude_ …

On a whim, his fingers grip the edge of the covers, yanking back _hard_.

For a moment, he doesn’t understand what’s happened. Sherlock isn’t in bed. Jim has only revealed a pile of clothes, roughly made in the shape of a skinny human body. “What the- ”

“Morning, Jim.” Sherlock’s dulcet baritone answers from the closet, stepping out from behind the door, only in his robe. “The slats on the stairs creak quite a bit, don’t they?”

“They don’t.” Jim grumbles, scowling at him, “You set this whole thing up while I was opening the door.”

“Mhm.” Sherlock hums, Jim now noticing his hair is in disarray. He _had_ just woken up. A hand is pressed into Jim’s lapel, pushing him back onto the bed, bouncing a little as he lands. Watching as the taller man tosses the covers back onto the bed, Jim lets his shoes slide off.

“Now, the question is…” Sherlock stands in front of him, knee-to-knee, staring down, face cast in shadow, “How exactly am I to punish you for breaking in at such an awful hour?”

“I…” Jim tries to begin, but his mouth has gone dry. “You said- ”

“I know.” Sherlock smiles, pressing Jim back further, his back flat against the sheets, “Perhaps that was intentional.”

As the detective crawls over him, straddling his waist, Jim is suddenly _very_ aware that Sherlock is mostly likely naked under that robe. “Sherlock…” He says, uncertain, but there’s a _curiosity_ present that he can’t suppress.

“I could still be dreaming, too…” He muses, nuzzling into Jim’s neck, pressing soft kisses wherever he could, fingers carefully pushing up his sweater, pausing only to pull it off, letting it fall to the ground. Resuming quickly, Sherlock’s lips kiss and trace down to his chest.

Jim can do nothing but gasp, trying to catch the breath Sherlock seems so intent on taking.


	23. Why, Sherlock, Why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new chapters! Happy holidays!

There’s something fundamentally uncomfortable about sleeping in jeans. It denies one’s legs the pleasure of sliding between a set of sheets, the jean material has little give, too warm, the list goes on. Until now, Jim has never had the pleasure, but laying on his side, naked from the waist up, Sherlock spooned against his back, the tie on his robe undone, tangles of covers _everywhere_ , he’s too uncomfortable with the feeling to focus on the situation.

A combination of squirming and pushing at Sherlock’s torso frees him from the first obstacle — how long had he been asleep? Jim checks his mobile, which he’d had enough foresight to stash in his pocket, 8:15am. _Damn_. He rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in an adjacent pillow. Last night could’ve gone worse, getting _jumped_ seemed an apt punishment for his failed vengeance. _Though I have… begrudgingly learned my lesson._

Sherlock, however, proved more exhausted than needy. Shortly after wrestling Jim properly onto the bed, a hand curled around his stomach, drawing him against the detective’s lithe form. Kissed goodnight behind his ear, and that was frustratingly the end of the evening. Jim pouted for a while, but his eyes grew heavy, and eventually let sleep win-out.

 _Knockknocknockknock_. Jim winces, realizing _that_ was most likely what woke him up. “Sherlock? You awake?” Comes Watson’s voice.

 _Clearly not._ The criminal groans into the pillow, lightly shoving himself off the bed, padding on silent feet to hide in the closet, not putting it past the doctor to burst right in. He sits down, perched under some coats.

Heavy footfalls tell Jim that Sherlock’s hauled himself out of bed, to at least tell the intruder to piss off (politely as possible). A quick creak of the door, Jim assumes Sherlock is smart enough not to invite the doctor in, lest he see the random, too-small-for-the-detective sweater and bag on the ground.

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock demands.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“But you did. So. _What?_ ”

“I, err, was wondering if you were going anywhere this weekend?”

“Yes. In fact, I am.”

“Oh! Brilliant. Where?”

“ _Elsewhere_.”

“Not trying to pry, just being friendly- never mind. I’ll be gone too, I just wanted to know you’d be alright.”

“How utterly magnanimous of you.”

“You feeling alright, Sherlock? You seem…”

“Mildly annoyed at being woken? Yes. Have a nice time.”

“Fine!”

The door closed soon after, followed closely by the closet flooding with sunlight, Sherlock’s shadow dragging over the floor. “Oh, good, you _are_ in here.”

“Think I just took off?” Jim blinks to adjust to the brightness.

“The distressing thought crossed my mind. I woke up, you weren’t there.” Sherlock offers his hand, hoisting Jim back to his feet. “But then I saw you hadn’t retrieved any of your things, and came to the correct conclusion.”

“Mm. Thought it’d be best if the doctor didn’t catch me in your bed.” Jim pushes past the taller man, going back for his turtleneck, feeling exposed. Thankfully it was wrinkle-proof, so even after the night on the floor it looked halfway decent.

“Yes, thank you, explanations would be tedious, and would cut into our time together.” Sherlock wraps his arms around Jim’s midriff as he wriggles back into the thin weave. He kisses his nape, lips tracing over the skin, “Breakfast? I actually bought groceries.”

Jim shivers, leaning back into his chest, “Recently, I hope.”

“Mhm.” Sherlock takes one of Jim’s hands, gently pushing him away and guiding him through a dance-twirl. “The milk hasn’t even begun to curdle.”

The shorter man considers the thought as he’s whirling around, off his balance, Sherlock pulling him to be cradled in his arms. Jim looks up, confused, but grinning, a warmth in his chest, not just from the sweater. “Alright… but _you_ are cooking.”

“Certainly.” Sherlock tugs him back to standing on his own, planting a kiss on his cheek before leaving the room for the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

“For your habit of starvation, I’m surprised...” Jim mutters between his third and fourth slice of french toast. "It's delicious." He hadn’t been _actively_ dreading having to choke down whatever the detective managed to scrape together, but with what knowledge Jim had of what Sherlock seemed to think the microwave was for, he is surprised at the lack of thumb-taste in the vanilla.

“Well, it’s science. Applied science.” Sherlock stretches his arms up, bringing them back down to tent under his chin. “All sorts of chemical reactions going on.”

“Mhm.” Jim shrugs, chewing slowly to savor the hints of cinnamon. Now that he thinks about it, neither he, nor anyone else had cooked for him in a long time. Always too busy. _Perhaps I’ll hire a personal chef…_

Sherlock stands up, taking his plate, setting it in the sink, “Alright. I’m going to get dressed.” He turns around, winking. “Eat as much as you like. We’ll be leaving after you’re done, no rush.”

Jim pouts, swallowing a bite, “Won’t you need to bring things? Since we’re staying overnight.”

“Already in the trunk of the car.” Sherlock hums as he walks by, “Packed the night before, so you wouldn’t be tempted to snoop.”

Jim balls up a napkin and throws it at his curls.

 

* * *

 

Leaving the house, Sherlock walks them around the corner to a small blue Prius, looking far too clean to be anything the detective owned. “Who’d you steal it from?” Jim asks, now curious if he’d ever _heard_ of the man driving.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock shrugs, pulling the keys out of his coat pocket, unlocking the car with a button on the keyring. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Don’t mind at all. Proud.” Knowing better than to ask again where they are going, he slips into the car without further comment. 

 

* * *

 

“It’s been an hour, Sherlock.” Jim grumbles, elbow resting on the door, chin in his palm, watching trees and grass go by. He rarely drove, and for journeys longer than half an hour, he usually opted for flying, or at least a train.

“And we’re nearly there.”

“Your patience for this is slightly disturbing.” Jim huffs.

"On the way back, you can play some music." Sherlock shrugs, eyes trained on the road ahead. “You’re just desperate to find out what we’re doing.”

“You’d think I’ve earned that knowledge by now.”

“Mm.” The car slows to a crawl, pulling into a shoulder on the road, previously obscured by trees. “I could tell you now.”

“Yeah, now that we’re _here_.” Jim puffs out his bottom lip.

“You’re telling me you haven’t figured it out already?” Sherlock undoes his seatbelt, exiting the car and circling around immediately to the trunk.

Jim also steps out, finding solid ground. He takes a moment to shake out his stagnant legs, gulping in deep breaths of fresh air. Much different atmosphere than the city, noisy in a different way — birds, wind, consequently rustling leaves — calm. Peaceful. The opposite adjectives he’d generally associate with the detective. “We’re… going on some wilderness hike?”

“Yes and no.” Sherlock opens the trunk, beckoning Jim over. He obliges, quickly having a backpack tossed in his hands.

“We’ll be walking along that trail a while.” He points to the pathway that splits the trees. “There’s a nice clearing.” Another pack goes over Sherlock’s shoulder. “And we’ll be camping out. I’ve got a tent and everything.”

Jim’s blank stare becomes one of confusion, then one of panic. How had he not seen this coming? “And… why exactly?” Is the kindest thing he can think to ask.

“Other than getting away from the ever-watchful eye of the British government? The stars are fantastic, I thought you might enjoy that.”

 _Yes. I could also enjoy that from a cabin. Or my high-rise flat, where I have showers, a microwave and a telescope._ “I… haven’t been camping. Ever.”

“How hard could it really be? We used to do it all the time early in our evolution, and we didn’t even have the benefit of camp stoves.” He nods toward the trail. “Let’s go.”

Sure he’ll regret it, wishing he’d worn trainers instead of flats, Jim sighs, securing the straps over his back, taking Sherlock’s hand before letting him lead him to the dirt.


	24. Here in the Dirt

Much to Jim’s surprise, the campsite has a charming simplicity, forcing him to stop at the end of the trail just to take it in. It is well-tread, with several bare patches of earth in a circle, roughly the size of tents, around a fire pit. There is even a pile of wood, probably left by the last inhabitants. Trees form a natural barrier about twenty feet away, offering the illusion of solitude.

There’s even a picnic table at each site. _Quaint, picturesque._

“Good?” Sherlock asks with a slight uptick of his eyebrows, walking past Jim, dropping his backpack at the third spot, rolling his shoulders, leisurely lifting his arms over his head.

The sun rolls over the detective’s curls beautifully, shimmering, enough to make Jim blush as he paces forward to join him. “Admittedly… yes.” He slides off his bag next to Sherlock’s, sitting at the wooden bench, closing his eyes, inhaling the sweetness of the foliage. “Evergreens, foxglove…” He sniffs again, “And… something smells like tomatoes?”

“Excellent nose.” Sherlock quickly bends over, stealing a kiss before pulling the bag onto the table, dumping out the contents, looking to be a bunch of fabric, collapsed poles, and a pot.“There’s a dehydrated lasagna in here somewhere…”

“Hm.” Jim hums, emptying his out similarly. A silver, resealable packet falls out, two bowls, forks, and a roll of paper towels.

“There it is.” Sherlock gestures to the packet, “Ingenious bit of chemical engineering. Boil water, open the bag, pour the water in, close it back up, open it again after twenty minutes, and suddenly there’s edible food product.”

“That sounds vaguely like a commercial.” Jim murmurs, sticking out his tongue.

“They’re easy.” Sherlock shrugs, starting to expand the poles, each wobbling in his hand. “I lived on these, once upon a time. When I bothered to eat.”

“Is that fondness or regret I’m hearing?” He asks, sitting close.

“Something of both, though I’m hardly inclined to either… the past is terribly useless to get sentimental about.”

“Says the man hiding a twenty-year-old pair of trainers under his bed.”

Had it been from _anyone_ else, it would be so cruel. But it was uttered in such cheek, from the only person even relevant to that conversation: Sherlock can’t help but grin. “Says the man who’s now going to pitch the tent all by himself.”

Jim narrows his eyes, pouting out his lips, the slightest bit of panic in his voice, “I’ve no idea how.” Because he _really_ didn’t, and he is beginning to doubt his mobile’s data had very good reception out here.

“Relax. You’re just going to help.” Sherlock tossed out the tent cloth onto the bare earth, picking up the wobbly poles and resting them on his shoulder, handing one to Jim.

The smaller man took it with an annoyed twist of his mouth. “Alright…”

They set to work, confused and frustrated most of the way, the crisscrosses of the metal never seeming to quite line up. Eventually the tent stood, Sherlock hitting pegs into the ground with a rock.

Wasn’t half-bad, though Jim is still wary — he was really supposed to sleep in _that?_ As Sherlock finishes, he opens up the zippered door. “Would you grab the sleeping bags?”

Jim peeks in, seeing nothing more than a glorified empty trash bag in a pastel blue color. “Sure…” He says, not bothering to hide his skepticism. But searching the table, he can’t seem to find anything to be nearly big enough to even be a _blanket_. “Err… Sherlock… where exactly _are_ the sleeping bags?”

“They should be strapped to the backpacks… are they not?” The detective comes back over, body freezing at the first scan. “Ah…”

“You _forgot_ them?”

“No!” He chirps, almost indignant, “They’re in the trunk… in the car…”

Jim looks up, glaring. “And…?”

Sherlock wets his lips, “I’ll… go get them.” He takes the lighter from the table, placing it in Jim’s hand. “Can you start a fire while I’m gone?”

“As much as my reputation suggests otherwise, I’m hardly an arsonist.”

“Try your best.” Sherlock kisses his temple, starting on the path back to the car.

For a moment, Jim just watches him go, until his silhouette is swallowed by the trees. It’s quiet again, the sounds of the forest reclaiming the land. He takes a few of the paper towels, wadding them up into the fire pit, throwing a few twigs in it for good measure.

After the starter fire catches, he piles some of the logs in.

Twenty minutes later, Jim has a respectable blaze going, sitting at the bench, warming himself by it. He thinks to start boiling water, but there’s something about the fire that compels him to be lazy.

“Dozing off?” Sherlock is suddenly by his ear.

Jim flinches up to his feet, mentally cursing himself for letting his guard down so thoroughly.

The detective’s smile stretches across his face, holding up a large roll of puffy cloth. “Here it is.”

“It?” Jim scrutinizes the bundle. “Singular?”

“Mm. Well, I suppose it is one _entity_ , but two parts.” He walks over to the tent, tossing in the sleeping bag, releasing the ties on it, letting it unfurl.

The material blooms into a large square, as if it were simply a giant pocket one would find on a shirt, seamed together at the sides. Jim meanders over in curiosity, poking his head under the flap of the “door.”

“They have conjoining zippers.” Sherlock explains, “I took the liberty of fusing them, but if you’d feel more comfortable separating them… I should point out it’s going to be cold tonight.”

Jim lets the moment hang, then scowls. _Oh, you mischievous…_ he sighs playfully. “Fine. You’ve won me over.”

“A battle well-fought.” Sherlock smirks, then lightly pushes Jim over, his stance making for poor balance.

“ _Ah!_ ” Jim flails his arms outward to avoid face-planting. He manages a somewhat dignified descent, catching himself on his forearms. Grumbling, he rolls over to get up, only to find Sherlock _far_ too close to him, Jim only now realizing that the detective is on his hands too, placed on either side of him.

He leans down, connecting their lips briefly. They have shared so few, yet this one seems _familiar_. Welcoming. It’s hard to stay pissed.

As Sherlock pulls away, the skin beside his eyes wrinkle with delight, bouncing off wordlessly.

Jim lets his arms fall, laying back, feet sticking out of the tent as he stares up, wondering why on any planet he would allow anyone to get away with that. He hears the trees rustle. The sky’s turned a faint orange-purple. His coat is beginning to seep cold, which means it’s nearing freezing temperatures.

Another sound accompanies the wilderness: boiling water.

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, Sherlock makes a cursory attempt at rinsing out the bowls before stuffing them unceremoniously in a plastic bag. _Out of sight, out of mind,_ Jim supposes, _And entirely not my problem._

But now Jim isn’t entirely sure what to do. Too early for sleep, but being out of range of a tower meant no work of any sort. Jim turns his head, looking to Sherlock for some sense of direction.

The detective, however, isn’t looking back at him. Or doing anything at all. Sitting beside Jim, his face is angled up, eyes focused on the night sky. Jim looks up as well, finding his breath nearly stolen from him.

Without city lights, the pinpricks of stars are far more pronounced, a soft halo surrounding each of them, accenting their sharpness. “Thought you weren’t into this sort of thing? Useless, isn’t it?” Jim asks, unable to tear his eyes away, as he’s sure he can see so much farther into the galaxy than he ever has.

“As you’re not _into_ camping?” Sherlock points out innocently, using the opportunity to take Jim’s hand under the table, entwining their chilly fingers. Warm by the fire or not, the temperature has a steep gradient, Jim’s back nearly burning, his front cool, and his extremities almost numb.

“We don’t like _all_ of the same things. By necessity. But I wanted insight into you all the same.” Sherlock continues.

The smaller man narrows his eyes, slightly annoyed, “Are you _teaching_ me how to be in a relationship?”

Sherlock laughs, shaking his head, “Not exactly. You’ll conduct yourself as you want to. As will I. This is just how I choose to do so.” He lifts Jim’s hand, kissing the back of it, finally looking over. “You are important to me. I plan to express that.”

Jim’s suddenly grateful for the cold and shadows of the flame, even if it did little to hide his faint blush, something was better than nothing. “Sherlock… I’m cold.” He tries to keep up his annoyed front, meeting his boyfriend’s eye, “And my flat is far, _far_ away from here.” The view is lovely, yes, but the criminal isn’t in the habit of being uncomfortable for the sole purpose of a hobby.

“Well… if we move closer to the fire, we’ll be warmer very fast, and we can keep stargazing.” Sherlock suggests, though the wetting of his lips tells a very different story. “Or. We could crawl into the tent. It’ll be cold at first, since the sleeping bags have been laying fallow. But they’ll warm up soon enough.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Christ,_ you weren’t kidding.” Begrudgingly, Jim has changed into his pajamas (which, if he was being honest, needed at least two more layers to be comfortable in this weather), and slid into the dual sleeping bag, teeth only seconds from chattering.

“I rarely ‘kid.’” Sherlock insists, only hesitating a moment before curling an arm around Jim.

“I would push you off because you _got_ me into this situation…” Jim huffs, turning to face the detective, his arm going around his waist in turn. “But you’re warm.” And he is. God, he really is. Practically a small star on his own, skin warmed by that coat he always insists on wearing.

Jim buries his face in Sherlock’s chest, shivers running down his spine, leeching whatever heat he can, his string of thoughts nothing more than _cold, cold, cold, fuck it’s cold._

But after a moment, it gets bearable.

After another, Sherlock’s warm lips are on Jim’s freezing ones. They’re soft, possessive, _hungry._ Fierce enough that Jim wonders if the taller man is even _aware_ how cold it really is. And perhaps he isn’t, as Jim finds himself forgetting as well, getting so easily lost in the distraction.

What was like laying a patch of ice cubes moments ago has now become just short of a convection oven. Jim feels as if he’s being cooked alive, pinned under a mess of curls, barely getting a second to breathe between bouts of feverish kissing.

And it is like a fever. Heat has become almost a visible haze, their bedclothes doing little to protect their modesty, feeling hardness pressed against his leg, an audible gasping whenever something is accidentally rubbed the right way.

Jim knows it’s his own fault it’s accidental at all, the occasionally-noble detective doing his very best to be respectful. But oh, how he _wanted_. Enough that he tried a less-than-subtle hint, hand snaking between them, dipping under the detective’s waistband faster than his logic could come up with a reason _not_ to.

But to his disappointment, Jim’s hand is stopped, Sherlock’s firmly gripping his wrist, breaking the kiss as he starts to laugh, “ _Dammit_.”

Mild rejection or not, Jim feels that breathless whisper to his core. “What?”

“It’s… I didn’t bring anything.” He replies, trying to stop laughing, “Or a change of clothes.”

 _For the mess_. Jim thinks, without realizing fully what it meant. “So, we shouldn’t…?” He presses, wondering vaguely if it is just some haphazard excuse. _But to protect me, or yourself?_

“Hm…” Sherlock pecks at Jim’s lips again, then again, but savoring it. “Not tonight. Not _here_. You’re a hair too miserable for me to want to tarnish what should be a perfect experience.”

Yet another cue to be annoyed, “Don’t read my mind.”

“Don’t think so loud.” Sherlock taps his finger to Jim’s forehead. Jim lurches his head forward in an attempt to bite it, but the detective has already rolled off, arm squeezing around Jim’s middle, cuddling against him, “Now go to sleep. I forgot to pack breakfast, so we’ll be going for pastries in the morning.”

Jim rolls his eyes, squirming away some. “You eat a lot more than your reputation suggests.”

“My reputation comes from that insipid blog, which only chronicles my time on _cases_.” He pulls the criminal back, flush against him, whispering in his ear. “And I don’t eat on cases.”

Wondering _how_ he managed to make that sound sexual, Jim gives up on getting away, focusing instead on how comforting the sound of Sherlock’s heartbeat is against the sudden, oncoming onslaught of rain.

 _Joy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... am not particularly proud of this chapter. I felt it was really important that they have a "bad" date. And I think I did that. But erg, I'm just not entirely happy with this. BUT. I am happy with the upcoming chapter, cause whackiness ensues. Soooo hopefully you made it through this mess of a chapter and tune in next time!


	25. A Quantum Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different.

The ride back had been a quite affair. They’d stopped for breakfast, talked some, though there was an underlying tension. Whether it was from the missed sexual opportunity, or that they had to slog through the same trail that morning, except that it was 80% mud and ice… Sherlock had a reasonably good idea.

He dropped the criminal off at his own flat, freeing him to wash the entire day off his body and mind. Jim had been far too annoyed for words, more so with every second filth was allowed to dry on his pants and shoes.

Sherlock drove home and did much the same. With an added passive-aggressive text from Mycroft about the car being covered in dirt and full of wet camping equipment.

Sherlock forwarded the conversation. At least Jim thought it was funny, terse about it as he could be.

They don’t talk for a few weeks after that.

 

* * *

 

**A client gifted me a case of interesting wine. Apparently brewed from raspberries, and as beer. -SH**

**Americans are strange. -SH**

 

Thinly veiled, though Sherlock doesn’t really need to _veil_ his intentions anymore. Or so he hopes. The case of beer-wine does seem interesting, and possibly up the criminal’s alley.

Thankfully, his answer is swift and to the point, even more so than he expects:

 

**I assume you’re inviting me to partake and draw similar conclusions. -JM**

 

**No point in being coy, then? Yes. -SH**

 

**No tents. -JM**

 

Sherlock knows he deserves that one.

 

**No tents. -SH**

**Was planning a night in regardless. -SH**

 

**Seven alright? -JM**

 

**Perfect. John will be out. Date of his own, apparently. -SH**

 

**So we’ll have approximately 50 minutes alone? -JM**

 

**At least. -SH**

 

Sherlock grins, content to leave the conversation, getting up to shower (heaven forfend he be anything less than _pristine_ in Jim’s presence).

Precisely seven minutes later, the detective steps out, drying off clumsily, trying not to agitate his curls. Returning to his room to search for a wrinkle-free suit, he notices an alert on his phone.

 

**Also: I pre-approve our dates from now on. -JM**

 

**Fair enough. -SH**

 

* * *

 

Five minutes to seven, Jim arrives. He doesn’t bother knocking, nor did Sherlock bother to lock the front door. He’s dressed casually enough — jeans, a black tee and a light jacket — not wanting to draw much attention to himself by toting a Westwood _everywhere_ when he isn’t meeting with a client.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, intently watching some awful show on the TV. “Ugh.” Jim wrinkles his nose, hanging his coat on the nearest hook to the door, approaching carefully. “If you’re going to be passively entertained, shouldn’t it be with something worthwhile?”

The detective lolls his head back, upside-down gaze meeting Jim’s. “It’s wonderfully frustrating.” He snaps his neck forward, standing up, rounding the chair to get close to Jim, wrapping his arms around his body. “Hello.”

Jim smiles, hands sliding up Sherlock’s long back, resting just under his shoulder blades. “Hello again.” Whatever tension there is, _was_ , melts away with the first warm touch.

They share a brief kiss, hardly more than a passing graze.

Even _that_ is enough to get Jim’s heart slamming against his ribcage. He tries to breathe slowly before he gets lightheaded, enveloped in Sherlock’s arms. “I, um… heard tell of beer?” He manages.

Sherlock grins, “Something in that neighborhood.”

 

* * *

 

There hadn’t really been a plan. The fridge is full of fancy glass bottles with sweet, red, fizzy liquid, several more cases waiting warm beside it.

They’d begun by watching Sherlock’s awful shows, playing some drinking game based on frequency of events. But now the television is muted, colors on the screen morphing silently in the background as the two consultants are smashed together in one chair.

There are six empty bottles on the coffee table.

Jim and Sherlock’s cheeks glow crimson as they snicker. Foreheads pressing together, their arms are tangled around one another, almost confused, too drunk to decide on what to do next. 

“You should come closer…” Sherlock’s speech is slurry, lazier than his sober lexicon.

“Exactly _how_ do you propose I do that?” They are already very nearly on top of each other.

Maybe that’s his answer.

Further solidified by Sherlock unlatching an arm from the criminal’s side, clumsy, flat palm patting his lap. Jim’s eyes drag downward, sloth overtaking him, down to his neurons, fizzling out, and for once in his adult life, spouting no audible thoughts.

He eases his feet onto the wood panels of the flooring, creaking under him as he wobbles. Automatically, his arms slide out, trying to catch his balance, looking much like an awkward goose in the process. Sherlock grabs his hips, steadying him with his surprisingly still-coordinated hands.

“That… you’re just trying to touch my arse, aren’t you?” Jim accuses playfully, fingers now brushing over Sherlock’s. “I suppose I don’t whole-heartedly _mind_.”

It’s meant to be an assurance, but it comes out raspy, low… something else that goes straight to Sherlock’s spine. He spins Jim around, throwing the smaller man off-balance once more, pulling forward, somehow choreographing it so he ended up comfortably straddling his lap.

Jim yelps as he falls to his knees, but it already grateful that neither of them managed to get hurt. “ _Careful_.” He still admonishes, arms crossing behind Sherlock’s neck, fighting his body’s drunken urge to go limp.

“I’m torn between agreeing, and reminding you that my job is to be… _not_ careful?” He tilts his head to the side, his face screwed in concentration, searching his mottled mind for the proper antonym. Grumbling, he gives up when it doesn’t come.

Jim, watching all this, smirks. “You’re a dangerous man, Sherlock Holmes… but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a softer side.”

“We all do, it’s called a collection of lipid molecules.”

“Fat cells.” Jim pouts softly, “Are you calling me _fat?_ ”

“In this particular allegory… I believe I just called _myself_ fat.” Sherlock points out, leaning forward, nipping Jim’s puffed out lower lip.

Flustered, Jim feels as if he needs to quip back, yet can think of nothing, letting words fall from his mouth, unfiltered: “But you already know I’m… I’m…” He hiccups, thankful for the tipsy burn on his face, hiding what could’ve very well been blushing, “All _that_.”

“All of it?” Sherlock blinks, his voice a curious whisper.

“Yeah.” Jim nods, “I’ve said it already.”

“So have I.”

And that’s that. Nothing left to say. Words already exchanged, chasing after an idea, an abstract concept of devotion that neither of them have navigated before. It’s daunting. It’s scary. It’s something somehow beyond, and entirely within the scope of chemistry and the physical.

The kiss is unexpected. Not the act itself, but the _passion_ behind it. The decreased inhibitions are partly to blame for the breakneck takeoff of speed, sucking and biting.

Jim moans, unconsciously rolling down his hips. _Dear god, how I have changed…_ the smaller man _feels_ , and _enjoys_ without boundary. Not only that, but what was once too stimulating, too fast, and all too much, is now nowhere _near_ enough.

Hunger. Craving for something deeper. He’d felt it before in the tent.

But he knows Sherlock would never ask. Because the criminal has done such a masterful job of convincing him that he’ll never be ready, be it through outright refusal or nervous jitters. Meaning it’s got to be himself that at least _begins_ that conversation.

“Sherlock, I…” He gasps, gripping at his very firm biceps to sure up his own metaphysical strength.

Then the sound of the downstairs landing door shutting fills the flat.


	26. It Might Change Us

“ _Shit_.” Sherlock whispers under his breath, tipping Jim out of his lap before the shorter man knows what’s happened.

Sherlock, the ever-sharpening _picture_ of inebriation, heightened by adrenaline, panics and throws his coat over Jim’s head, thinking it was a good method of disguise.

“Sherlock, what the-” Jim starts.

“ _Shh!_ ” He warns, crossing his legs, trying to act natural as the footsteps pace up.

“Oh.” Jim hears the doctor’s voice, “I didn’t think you’d be ho- who’s under your coat?” John tilts over to look, Sherlock turning even brighter pink.

“ _Busted!_ ” Jim singsongs in his London accent, giggling as he pushes the wool off, looking at the intruding doctor, barely remembering to be Jim-from-I.T., “Your brilliant ruse has been cracked!”

“Hey, I remember you!” John smiles, as if it was some obscure bit of trivia and recognition of an old face, “You’re, uh… Jim? Sherlock’s boyfriend?”

Considering the last time the blogger had seen Jim was sucking face with the detective, and now they were cozied up on the armchair, drunk, it was a fair assumption to make. “Not that I’m aware.” Jim examines his nails, glancing next to him, his partner still stun-locked, “But we’re working on it.”

“Ah, well…” John pauses, unsure of what to say to that, just now noticing the shirt Jim is wearing hangs lazily over his wrists. _Don’t shag in my chair?_ “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around Bart’s.” Small talk. Courtesy with anyone he might have to spend time with in the future. Something Sherlock really needed to learn to do with John’s own girlfriends.

“I imagine not.” Jim shrugs a single shoulder, “I quit quite a while ago. Better offer for my talents.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jim grins wide, “I’m more of a _programmer_ than Mr. Fix-It.”

“I hear either is lucrative, though I’m not much of a techie myself.”

“No, you’re not.” Jim hums, resting his chin on his hand, hardly able to hold his head up, “But that’s okay, I’m not much of a doctor.”

John laughs, not so much at the joke as the stark contrast to his flatmate — if _Sherlock_ had said something like that, he’d have stopped at the insult, not lightening the mood with a self-deprecating reference. _Just alike enough, but Jim’s kinder…_ a small hope emerges that the smaller man might teach the detective some manners.

Sherlock slides an arm around Jim’s waist, hooking his chin over his shoulder, pressing their cheeks together, “Jim’s being modest. He could probably get through medical school in a _year_ if he wanted to.”

“You’re drunk.” Jim counters lightly, “Medical school is more than memorizing words on a page… though I could do _that_ part well.”

John raises an eyebrow, but is secretly touched by the display — Sherlock, heartless, _machine_ Sherlock, was being playful, complimentary, and affectionate with another human being. Unbelievable. “I… think I’ll let you two be alone.” He nods at Sherlock, “Try not to cause a ruckus? I’ve got work in the morning.”

“I’ll keep him contained.” Jim comments dreamily, trying to push back on Sherlock, as his weight had been slowly pressing him into the wooden frame.

“Thanks.” John smiles, and Jim notes it’s _genuine_. “Night.” He lumbers up the stairs to his own room.

 _Hm._ Jim ponders, wondering _what_ exactly that smile was about. Sherlock’s happiness? His own, now that the detective would be more distracted from attacking his own conquests? The list goes on, though not much of it flattering.

When the doctor’s bedroom door shuts, Jim squirms, turning to face Sherlock again.

Sherlock, with glazed-over eyes, blinking slowly in the dim light, out-of-focus.

“Darling, are you still in there?” Jim asks, palm sliding heavily over the man’s chest, which he just now noticed is partially exposed. _I must’ve taken off a few buttons in my eagerness…_ Interesting. He’d lost track of himself — he can’t decide if that’s a good thing.

Sherlock wets his lips. “You choose to get along with him.”

Jim tilts his head, “We all make choices on whether or not to be amicable, yes.”

“But you. Specifically.” The detective waves his hand in the general direction of Watson’s bedroom. “Could’ve been… well. Like I usually am. Like you usually are to most.”

“James Zucco is nicer than me.” True enough, though the first time around the persona _did_ express some annoyance in the man standing between he and Sherlock.

“John didn’t know that until now. You didn’t exchange words at all.”

“He’s a character… I stay true to character.” True or not, it comes out more like an excuse.

“But you didn’t _have_ to.”

“What are you getting at?”

“You…” Sherlock grins, leaning in enough to press their foreheads together, “Care enough. To want to be welcomed back.”

“It’s… good not to burn bridges.”

“And what could you possibly get from him?” He lightly pokes Jim’s chest, “ _Yoooouuu_ care about me. Enough to want my friends to like you.”

Jim rolls his eyes, “I thought my feelings for you were made clear quite a while ago.” He wet his lips, kissing his cheek. “I was just clear that I’d never say it again.”

“As was I…” Sherlock frowns, pressing his face into Jim’s neck. “But maybe I should break that rule, just this once. Or twice…”

Despite himself, Jim smirks, feeling his face, the back of his neck, burn. His arms cross over Sherlock’s back, “And why would you do that?”

“There’s only one reason why.”

“Mm…” Jim considers, petting the space between his shoulder blades. “You’re smashed, darling.” He admonishes lightly, “Maybe we should go to bed?”

“We _should_.” Sherlock’s head whips up, eyebrows popping up as he stood, jostling Jim, the smaller man rolling slightly into the empty divot in the cushion. “Right now.”

“Little eager there, aren’t we?” He asks, standing shakily, knees weak.

Sherlock wastes no time, taking Jim’s hand, tugging him down the hallway leading to his bedroom. “‘Eager’ is exactly how I feel.” He pushes through the door, Jim quickly shutting it for him.

The detective lets go of Jim’s hand, turning to look at him properly, pupils expanding in the darkness. Seconds pass, an unspoken boundary of thick air around them, paralyzing them in their socks, stuck.

All at once, it collapses.

Sherlock is in front of him, kissing him hungrily, a hand in Jim’s hair, another on his hip, crushing grip bringing him in close. Jim undoes the last of Sherlock’s buttons, sliding the shirt off his shoulders.

Sherlock’s body is objectively beautiful. Subjectively too, Jim frozen for a moment as he admires the flat, lovely planes of his muscles. The sight comforts him, subdues his nerves as those long, violinist’s fingers return the favor, his own shirt pooling by his feet.

Almost dance-like, Sherlock takes Jim’s hands, body, rocking him into his arms, dipping him down onto the mattress, overlaying him with his body.

“I love you.” Sherlock whispers, kissing his lips, the press so soft that it’s barely there.

Jim’s breath hitches. He smells Sherlock, his lovely scent, kissing him back.

They struggle to stay touching as they shift, getting in the middle of the bed. “I love you too…” He replies, nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip.

Sherlock hums, letting out a breathless laugh. “Don’t hate me in a moment, then. Please.”

“Why would I?”

“Because…” Sherlock pushes up, resting on his forearms, staring down at Jim, eyes betraying some concern. “Not tonight, either.”

A beat passes, however long it takes for Jim to get the implication. “ _Oh_.” He blinks, puzzled. “That’s… why not?”

“I think…” Sherlock runs a hand through Jim’s hair, gaze darting away, “Perhaps I’m afraid?”

“Afraid? Of me?” Jim asks, furrowing his brow. “I know I promised to, but I really doubt I’m going to kill you.”

Sherlock laughs, smiling wide, rolling off Jim, clutching at his stomach. “Not _that_ kind of fear. No, while that’s sweet, it’s also a bit sexy.”

 _That’s what I thought. Until now…_ Jim squirms to his side, looking at his mirthful companion. “Then you’re afraid of…?”

“I’m not precisely sure… that’s also terrifying.” Sherlock stretches his arms up, “I think I’ve grown quite attached to you.”

“But you wanted to, before.” Jim points out.

“Yes, yes. But now I’m afraid that sex, cliché as it is, might ruin what we’ve made since then.”

Another pause. Moriarty sits up, wiping a stray bit of sweat off his forehead, staring out the window. He looks back over, palm stroking up Sherlock’s thigh. “It _is_ a bit scary, isn’t it?”

“It’s not going to be about the sex at all.”

“So… never?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock shrugs, “If the time comes where we ever _need_ it to happen… then yes.”

“Need it to happen?”

Sherlock smirks, “You’ll know. If it comes up.”

“So…” Jim falls back down beside Sherlock, taking his hand. “What now?”

“Come here.” He says, pulling down the covers, and after a moment of consideration, tosses off his trousers.

Jim does the same, both now mostly nude, curling around each other. Sherlock kisses Jim’s forehead, “If you’re not tired, there are things we could discuss in the meantime.”

“Could?”

“Well… ‘should’ is a little while from now.”

“And what are those things?”

Sherlock blinks, snickering, “We’re a little too drunk for this, maybe.”

“No, no, now I’m curious.”

The detective places his hand on Jim’s shoulder, looking into his eyes. “What do you think about getting married?”


	27. Cracks in the Mirror

Through some magic of fight-or-flight response, Jim is getting dressed in less than a minute. He’s not even conscious of it until he’s zipping his trousers back up.

Something funny, if not a little infuriating, is how calm Sherlock looks, still lounging about as if his beloved hadn’t just leapt up. He’s almost _bored_ , stretching his arms above his head, laying back down, “I’ll see you next week, then?”

_Charming_. Jim thinks bitterly, _How dare you._ Even if he is in the habit of running away a lot, this is serious. “Sod off.”

Because Jim Moriarty isn’t about to bend to cultural norms, be caged, _domesticated_ like a cow or a potato. Left defenseless to the countless predators out in the world.

Forever, publicly labeling Sherlock as his weakness with some piece of paper. No. Absolutely not. Because Sherlock is most certainly _not_ his weakness, official or otherwise.

Jim steals another glance at his paramour, both their faces betraying a _feeling_. “Disappointed?” He brings himself to ask, sliding his shirt over his head.

“Not in the way you think.” Sherlock props himself up on his elbow, “Just in that I won’t see you for… however long you decide is appropriate.”

And Jim sees it: a slight flush creeping up the detective’s neck as an upset-lump forms. The hitch in his breath that rippled across his chest. A red tinge in his eyes.

“Christ, you _do_ love me.” It escapes Jim’s lips, sounding resigned. Desperate for explanation. There’s a difference between the man _saying_ it, even seeing it at its best moments, feeling it in a warm bed together… and seeing now, open, vulnerable, _in pain_ that Jim himself is causing.

Wasn’t there a time this didn’t matter?

“You know I do.” Sherlock answers tiredly, flopping back down, drawing the blanket over his head, trying to save whatever dignity he could. As if Jim hadn’t already seen.

Or maybe Jim hasn’t seen the worst yet. Jim wet his lips, straightening out his shirt, and against his better judgement, speaks again, “Give me a week.”

 

* * *

 

And oh boy, is that week necessary.

Not for Sherlock, Jim barely gets a chance to _think_ about all that’s happened between them. No, it seems to have gotten harder and harder to find a balance between his life with the detective and being _Moriarty_ , the man behind the mask.

It makes sense, these personas are the pinnacle of “at odds” with each other. Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, the ruler of the underground nations should, by all means, dispose of the detective and focus on work. But the whole man, the parts of himself that he often likes to ignore, continues to reach out and make goo-goo eyes.

“So we _did_ retrieve the tablets? Good, good.” It had taken some time, but Jim mentally pats himself on the back, enjoying a steaming Masala Chai as he listens to the latest status report. “You will be looking at a substantial bonus, Winters. An extra thousand for every one of our lost members you find, preferably alive.” Whether or not they’re found only to be _traitors,_ all the better.

He hangs up there, bounty issued, no reason to linger. Taking a long sip, he stands up out of his plush chair, practically floating onto his balcony, gazing out into the London cityscape. It’s been _days_ since he’s had even this long of a silence, his phone silent, no one here. He can’t avoid thinking about _it_ any longer.

Growing up, there was always a phrase he hated. “Make an honest man out of me,” usually referring to the woman one would marry. “Honest” meaning making a living _not_ doing crime. And while, yes, women were and are full of magical qualities, realism, cunning, and tended more towards levelness than most men he’d had the misfortune of working with, Jim, and more importantly, “Moriarty” could never see that happening. Either the woman, or the marrying, or the honest part.

And yet.

Another thing he’s heard over the years, where many of his jobs _come_ from, is that marriage is a mistake. That the average person — even the majority of above-average people — will marry the wrong person. Will mourn the loss of all other possibilities, which were presumably sex, gawking, and the thrill of the chase. But he didn’t chase women.

Jim had never even considered the possibility he might like men _that_ way. Maybe he still doesn’t — even after his “awakening” with Sherlock, Jim has looked elsewhere, mostly out of curiosity. Actors, models, people he sees at coffee shops, even some young, handsome clients, and he acknowledges a certain appreciation for their looks. _Still!_ No _interest_ whatsoever.

So, Sherlock probably wouldn’t try to take his web from him, the man got far too much enjoyment out of it. He’s not, as far as Jim knows, a woman, or a man he’s uninterested in. The chase would probably never end, if twenty years of it preceded this… another twenty, and yet another twenty would probably follow, just without the distance.

By far, Sherlock isn’t the wrong person to marry at all.

For a moment, Jim allows himself to consider. _What if?_ He can’t imagine married life to be much different than it is now, though maybe they’d live together. The thought is enough to make him snort aloud, _Jesus, what would that even be like?_ But it’s not entirely outrageous, he’s not as squeamish as poor Mrs. Hudson. He wouldn’t berate Sherlock for being who he is, like Watson is so quick to.

But ah, could Sherlock successfully co-habitate with another? Jim hasn’t seen anything particularly compelling in that direction.

Jim does have to admit that the fantasy of it is… intoxicating. He can feel the pull, an undeniable deep rouge of passion blooming even deeper than his soul. Yet it is tame, the desire to _be_ tame. To reach out in the darkness of self, wake from a nightmare and find another pale hand, grasping at his own. Security, where he’s had so little on the personal side.

Yet, there is a storm cloud that won’t stop nagging. One that begs him to be reasonable, that screams: _if you make him your security, it can be taken away. By another, or he could leave._ Too vulnerable, because that’s what it would be. If he never has someone that dear to him, he can never lose them.

If he breaks down those barriers, neither of them might like what they find. Even if he’s in denial about the reality of it (that they have been broken), it’s much better this way than to accept it. Besides, it hadn’t even been a full year.

In the end, it doesn’t take much thought. Sweet, yes, and a fantastical pipe dream that he might return to on his bad days… but that’s all it could ever be.

 

**No.**

 

It’s simple. To the point. Maybe even a hair rude, considering the wait. But that’s how it’s going to be, and he reasons that Sherlock has to learn that it’s entirely _not okay_ to say such things for shock value.

 

**Fair enough. -SH**

**But I’m not taking the ring back. -SH**

 

_Bought a ring already, was he really so certain? So arrogant?_ Jim rolls his eyes, brain reaching to be “annoyed” rather than “flustered.” _Why must he complicate things? Oh right, because he can never make things easy for anyone. Ever._

 

**Fair enough.**

 

**Next week then? -SH**

 

**Hope springs eternal, doesn’t it?**

 

Sherlock doesn’t text back. Jim isn’t sure how he feels about this.


	28. In Between Seconds

The Mulgrews cancelled the saffron import. Jim fixates on this. No one cancels on him, even if plans failed, it was never his fault. Everyone’s too afraid to question him or his methods. Or, they were. Had been. Is that what he is? A has-been, or at least heading there?

He has the traitors’ families strung up for their troubles, but something about it just doesn’t pack the same punch. Doesn’t affirm him the way it used to.

Jim is trapped in a limbo of both trying not to think about it, and having no choice. He paces around. He still arranges crimes, fixes problems, but everything is colored by the impending, crushing weight of his failure.

In the shadow of that, everything has lost its shine. He falls over on the sofa, pulling a pillow over his face. Things that occupied his mind for days on end, puzzles, games, they’ve all fallen away. What was the point? He didn’t command. Didn’t lead, didn’t find _purpose_ in chaos anymore. Thinking, thinking, thinking, too fast, too much- chaos wasn’t fun, order wasn’t fun, paying people to interrupt the status quo wasn’t _fun-_

His phone rouses him from the train of thoughts that’s poised to run him over.

Sherlock. He knows it before he checks the screen, mobile like a ton of bricks in his pocket. No, they hadn’t spoken in weeks, but the man had a way of just… _Predicting_ when Jim was on some edge. Normally, he was enough to distract, if not with his company, than with his little dance.

This time couldn’t be fixed. Distraction was dreary, the prospect itself felt like a chore. Another text chime. _Fine,_ he thinks, a snarl in his head, shoving his hand in this pocket, eyes raking over the screen.

 

**I was thinking we could go to dinner. -SH**

**I’m not hungry. -SH**

 

Usually, this would be enough to crack a smile. But this time, it only eases the burden of thought for as long as it took to read. Sherlock doesn’t understand. Doesn’t _see_. If nothing can entertain him anymore, then there’s _nothing_. No point.

 

**Neither am I.**

 

**More interested in getting out of the house. Then getting back in. -SH**

 

Hilarious. As if that’s something they could just _do_ , go out, to dinner, in public, with everyone and anyone who could possibly be _looking_. But as always, the detective has an answer for everything:

 

**I’ve got a friend. Private room in the restaurant. -SH**

 

**Fine. Where?**

 

Sherlock sends an address. They’ll meet there, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes or so. It would be an act, of course. But sometimes a good act could restore his mood, could offer some escape from his tumultuous view of life.

Jim looks down, notices for the first time today that he’s wearing sweatpants, no shirt. Unsure of how he came to be dressed as such, he wandered, almost in shock, to his closet, finding a crisp Westwood. Cobalt blue, getting in it, he almost felt like himself again, confidence simmering somewhere deep.

This could be okay.

But he goes to the mirror to slick his hair back, and he feels a chill. He’s so pale. Bags under his eyes — how had he been sleeping lately? He didn’t remember, and doesn’t want to look anymore. Setting his hair as fast as possible, Jim flees to his car, setting out for the restaurant.

 

* * *

 

“Something’s wrong.” Sherlock states, matter-of-factly, eyes focused on Jim’s, which were firmly stuck on his wine.

Jim’s attempts to act had obviously fallen flat, so uncomfortable in his skin, even his second skin, all out in the open like this. He’s barely touched his wine, but he’d ordered, right? He seems to remember reading Italian on the menu. Difficult to recall, while his thoughts occasionally drift to his security detail. What if they betray him too? What if the money was no longer enough, or someone with enough knowledge to get past them-

“Something’s always wrong.” Jim sniffs, tilting his head, watching the shine of the candle move along the glass, the red of the wine deepening as his perception shifted. Almost black.

_Can I help?_ But Sherlock doesn’t ask, he knows he can’t. Knows everything that Jim does is helplessly beyond him, knowledgeable as he is. Instead, he moves his chair to the other side of the table, sitting beside Jim, arm around his shoulders, kissing his cheek. _You are loved_.

Jim sits, still as a stone, vaguely aware he was being touched. He shifts his gaze, then his face, pressing his lips softly to Sherlock’s jaw, resting them there. He is trying. Which is more than anyone else ever has. That has to mean something.

Food comes, they eat beside each other, even if most of it is pushing food around with forks. They stay a while, silent, curling more together as the candle burned down. Eventually, Sherlock leaves a stack of bills, guiding Jim away from the table.

With some instruction, Sherlock drives him home, taking his car. Some part of Jim wakes though, taking Sherlock’s hand in his, refusing to let go as he took him past the front gate, past the doorman, up the elevator.

He pushes Sherlock into his flat, locking the door behind him, collapsing against the door. He doesn’t turn on the light, the glow from the street barely streaming through the distant curtains. Safe for now, maybe. Saf _er_ , at least, than being outside. So many people wanted him dead, but… Not Sherlock. _Not Sherlock_. His nemesis. Something greater than the opinions and mindings of so much of the world at large… Of all the things he has to fixate on, he could probably pick worse.

To his credit, Sherlock is patient. He stands there in front of Jim, arms hanging at his sides, fighting against every instinct to pry into that lovely head of his, or to get preemptively defensive. _So kind._ Usually Jim wouldn’t care, too wrapped up in himself. He still is, of course, but right now, in this moment… He _needs_ to be anywhere else.

Jim steps forward. Sherlock, suddenly feeling like bait at the end of a hook, struggles not to step back. Jim walks until they’re face to face, pupils dilated, almost, _almost_ touching. Breathing the same air, so close that Jim’s eyes, once adjusted, could see a tiny scar above Sherlock’s brow. There’s something here, he knows it. Making him sweat and shiver simultaneously, he kisses his thick lips, swiping his tongue between them.

Slightly suspicious, Sherlock hesitates, fragile situation, but it’s nothing they haven’t done before. They kiss, Jim closes his eyes, letting the darkness engulf him, just _feeling._ Time stops, he stops, stops breathing, stops _thinking_ …

Until he gasps for breath. _No, no, no!_ Jim pants, brain trying to regain enough oxygen to go back at it. But it’s not enough, it’ll _never_ be enough, it just doesn’t last. _Nothing ever can._ But the thought is enough to stop his heart right there, and he just has to _stop_.

A small crack appears, dividing reality between his eyes. There’s the ugly. The beautiful. The dark. The glow. Sherlock. Himself. Nothing fits together, exactly. Like a puzzle designed to be confusing, with multiple solutions. But that just ends up meaning there is no right answer.

He’s thinking too much again. Sherlock’s staring now, curious, wanting answers that Jim cannot give. It needs to stop.

So he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

After a moment, Sherlock understands, halting Jim’s fingers, palm gently overlaying them. Jim looks up, lost, eyes shining, glassy. Sherlock’s seem to ask, _are you sure?_ To which Jim can only reply by freeing his hands, and moving towards the other man’s.

Sherlock lifts Jim’s chin with a finger, bringing their lips together again. There’s more gasping, moaning as it goes on, as Jim lets himself be pressed against the wall. Usually when people do that, it’s for less pleasant of a reason, but he quickly learns it can be enjoyable too. Wall after wall, down the hallway, Jim lands on the bed.

He’s not thinking. He’s taking off his own trousers. Sherlock watches, stunned, but questioning this… Something about Jim now, his desperation, he knows that can only lead to darker places. Jim catches the end of him stripping as his pants hit the floor, eyes focused on the ground. It’s not shame, exactly. It’s just-

Sherlock crawls over him, pressing their bare flesh together, lips connecting again. An electric current runs through them, over Jim’s heart, his stomach. He feels again, _alive_ , not bored, but most importantly, not thinking.

But he’s not really there.


	29. Poisoned Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long for this chapter, I actually wasn't happy with the original sequence.

At 2:57am, Jim wakes. Dark, save for the glaring red of his digital clock. He turns his head, neck stiff from the arm under it, to see a sleeping Sherlock. Of course. Memories return from his barely-cognizant moments: there were tears, some sweat, some apologies for anything that may have hurt… and some semblance of peace.

He gets up, trying to shift the bed as little as possible, which is almost impossible, with some residual soreness… But manages to find a robe. Even now, the idea of continued vulnerability — even in his own house, even with the man who was _still_ naked in his bed, that he’d just _been_ quite vulnerable with — is revolting. He heads to the hall bathroom, flipping on the light, shading his eyes momentarily from the glare. Blinking to adjust, it takes a minute or two before he can _look_ in the mirror again.

There he is. Draped in a dark blue robe, a splotchy magenta hickey smarting on the left side of his neck. Somehow, he looks better this way. Or at the very least, he can look at himself without disgust. _What’s different?_

He washes his face, focusing on his eyes, wondering if they’re the problem, clouded with… _something_. But when he looks up again, he sees the same man, only this time he’s got water on his face. He grabs a towel, pats his face dry. He’d only slept three hours at most, yet somehow he felt more rested than he had in a long time.

Jim swallows, briefly considering a shower, but then shuts off the lights. _Tomorrow._ There’s something about this all, too perfect as it is, or at least too content, that drives him to stagnate. With another glance over his shoulder (not much good in the dark) to the mirror, he returns to bed, robe discarded on the floor.

Still asleep, Sherlock rolls, arm wrapping around Jim’s waist, drawing him flush against his body. Jim allows it, closing his eyes, trusting all too easily.

Then he understands.

_I’m not myself anymore._

That’s not okay.

_I’m the one Sherlock loves._

It’s distinctly very, _very_ far from okay. But… indignation could wait until the morning, couldn’t it? It was nice here. Easy. Peaceful, as he’d rarely ever been. Sherlock kisses the back of his neck, then he’s out.

 

* * *

 

When Jim wakes again, he feels a finger tracing patterns on his arm. His heart jumps, arm twitching away a fraction of an inch. The finger stops, the palm laying flat, strong, on his bicep. It’s enough to remind Jim there’s no danger. Where he is, who he’s with, it seeps back into the forefront of his mind. He’s not angry yet, but…

“Good morning.” Sherlock’s low rumble greets him. Must’ve sensed a change in his breathing, knowing to wait, as to not startle him. Jim rolls over to face him, a small smile on his face, “Morning.”

Sherlock mirrors his expression so perfectly, then leans forward for a kiss. Their lips meet briefly before the detective breaks it off, folding both arms around his partner, cuddling him close, “I was thinking maybe that I’d order breakfast?” It’s a genuine question, not a presumption.

“Something with potatoes, please.”

“Stereotype.” Sherlock mumbles, kissing him again.

Jim playfully pushes at his chest, “As I’m sure you’ll get black tea and blood sausage.”

“Heavenly.” Sherlock stretches out, sitting up, as much as it pained him to break the hug, “Potatoes sound nice, though.”

“Thought you rarely ate anyway?” Jim rolls onto his stomach, yawning into a pillow.

“It’s a special occasion.” Sherlock runs a palm down Jim’s spine, dipping under the covers a moment before shying away. He crawls over the bed, fishing for his phone out of his trousers, quickly searching for delivery breakfast places.

And it’s still nice, so Jim doesn’t kick him out.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Sherlock does take his leave. Jim mourns the loss a moment, like the setting sun in the middle of a very cold winter. But as he’s doing so, something even greater creeps in: the winter itself. Checking his texts, going back to being _that_ Jim, he finds yet more parts of his web crumbling, and falling into the endless chasm beneath the world.

There isn’t really a word for it that he knows of, something alive as he is, that has been following him most of his life. A black shadow that made its home in his eyes, dulling the world around him. It ate everything worthwhile, savoring where it could, but eventually moving on, leaving the bits behind.

A darkness that the work had kept at bay, that he had worked tirelessly, sometimes through the night, to keep from consuming his ceaseless distraction.

And then there was Sherlock. Sherlock, who had captured his eye so early on, a figure as mysterious and obscure as his name. He’d been keeping up, a perplexing mix of interesting and… the word still pains Jim to even _think_ , but _love_. Something he’d rarely known, something given to him so freely and selflessly now.

Still, with the work falling, even the morning’s beauty couldn’t stave it off.

So Jim does nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Nothing,” it turns out, is sitting back, watching the empire work. Each individual thread in his web dancing, being pulled by different winds, bugs, animals. Jim sits, untouchable, as everything works in a seamless harmony, or doesn’t.

His work feels well and truly done. A machine that will run, or not. The problem, the final problem, is that he doesn’t care anymore.

At some point, he realizes he hasn’t texted Sherlock in weeks. Texted him _back_ , rather: there were many received. There is something, however, that still needs exploring: Sherlock himself. The love he offers is so… unconditional, something about it just begs to be deconstructed.

But if one wants to tackle a problem, they must go to the source.

Later that week, Jim Moriarty is captured by the British government. By extension, Mycroft Holmes, the man who emotionally stunted Sherlock.

 

 

* * *

 

**I’m so sorry. -SH**

**I demanded he let you out the second I found out. -SH**

**Are you okay? -SH**

**Can I come over? I’ve missed you. -SH**

**It’s not even about sex. I mean it. -SH**

**I’m just worried. -SH**

 

Emotionally compromised, even physically after weeks of deprivation of all sorts, Jim wants to reply. Wants to take comfort in something so…

Well. _Comforting_.

He'd thought a lot about Sherlock during his imprisonment. About that last night, morning, even if it wasn't all perfect, blurred at the edges in places. It was something so  _solid_ to cling to, a handhold in a storm of torment, specifically aimed to break him. Yet, the memory of Sherlock was a shield made of pure diamond.

But there’s also something comforting about being alone, defending one's self without the invasion of anyone else. The winter pushes him along with little flurries, leading into the eye of the storm. During his time in captivity, Jim had learned enough, he didn’t need the detective anymore (if he ever really did). Things Sherlock probably wouldn’t talk about, things Jim needed to know for the next part of his beautiful plan.

The final text, sent a week later, is the true show of wit. The proof Jim has been searching for all this time:

 

**T** **o the ears of one possessed by the God of Death, reason and objections seem like so many idle complaints. -SH**

 

Jim knows those words, and they bubble up every now and them. Sherlock knows. Sherlock feels and thinks as he does. He replies simply, the only indication of confirmation Sherlock needs: 

 

**Monzaemon.**

 

He hopes that he understands. The final game is about to begin.


	30. The Song Remains the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson is doughy all over the scene a bit, but it goes away. #nogooseberries2k17

Jim doesn’t hide, not exactly. With Sherlock’s genius and resources, it wouldn’t be that difficult to find this flat, he’d done it before. But Moriarty, the web, has laid out a wealth of clues, put the wheels in motion for something big. The detective and his silly assistant became all tied up in that, so little time to devote to an old flame. 

Still, from the cozy distance of a hacked CCTV camera, Jim catches Sherlock looking out the window, in the direction of his spare loft (the first Sherlock followed him back to). Catches him fretting the notes, playing some theme on the violin that he’d constructed for their illicit romance.

Each time, Jim tries to ignore the subtle break of his heart. But he can't slow down to weep: there's work to be done yet. 

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, what the _hell?_ ” John is yelling at him. About an hour ago (54 minutes, Sherlock notes), Jim Moriarty was caught wearing the crown jewels, all while several other plots unfolded around him.

Yet, John Watson is apparently pissed off about the security pictures.

“That’s your boyfriend, isn’t it? _Wasn’t_ he?” He shoves the gritty images that Mycroft had forwarded to him, in front of Sherlock's face.

The detective sighs, setting his violin beside him, and takes them gingerly. His fingers lightly trace over the almost carefree expression on Jim’s face, MP3 device in hand. He flips to the next, haphazardly out of chronological order, to what appears to be him smashing the glass case with a fire extinguisher. _Good lord, he has nice arms_. Intrusive thought, Sherlock shakes his head to clear it, to little avail.

“Don’t deny it! I saw him! You were…” John thinks the gesture of denial was aimed at him. He’s so engulfed with rage, Sherlock wonders vaguely if he’s taking it a little too hard. Were all people like this? Was he headed there himself, almost mad with heartbreak? 

“Yes. This is Jim.” Sherlock sighs, fingers clinging to the pictures, almost unable to let go, “Moriarty.” He clarifies, meeting John’s eyes, “And yes. I _knew._ ” Knew so much, yet not enough, never enough. 

“Bloody right you did.” John huffs, “You notice everything, I don’t know how you wouldn’t have seen he was a… hang on.” He wets his lips, voice calm as realization dawns just a hair too late, “You… you openly dated him, kissed him, for _months,_  despite the fact he’s a _murderer?_ Wait, no… are you _still?_ ”

At the “still,” Sherlock bristles, “He’s not a murderer, just a planner of murders, get it straight.” He hisses crisply, looking at the photographs again, standing up, “And no. I’m not.” Quite done with the conversation, he takes the pictures back to his room, tossing them in his bureau drawer, slamming it shut. Can’t stand to look at them anymore, but can’t stand to burn them like he should.

John attends the trial, Sherlock stays at home, convinced it’d be too painful. Wash his hands of the whole mess and call it good, is what he resolves.

Until he's subpoenaed.

 

* * *

 

Remarkably, it’s not painful at all. There’s something horrifying about being on the witness stand, forced to stand ten feet away from Jim, just barely out of reach. But he closes the gap somehow, sheer force of mind, little gestures, little expressions…

It’s almost like there’s no one else in the room.

 

* * *

 

When they’re put in holding cells beside each other, there’s a charged silence. They know each other is there, separated by what amounts to nothing at all. Atoms that don’t touch, merely float about with some vague sense of belonging and direction; just like they used to be.

Sherlock can feel the turn of their corresponding electrons, a pull on the cosmic fabric as they both turn in synchronicity without actually seeing each other. Positives to negatives, protons to electrons, even the neutrons sitting idly by seem to call for some action. 

They sit, lay on their regulation plank beds. Sherlock reaches out, touching one of the individual bricks in the wall, wondering if Jim is doing the same.

Jim is, feeling a pang deep in his heart. It fills him with dread, self-loathing, yet still _longing_ will not go away. The silence makes the void in his heart grow, and he tells himself that’s a good thing. Perhaps it would engulf him entirely, freeing him from the mess he began. 

The sun crosses the sky, court will adjourn for the day in a moment or two, and Sherlock will be released. Jim feels like he has to say _something_ , so he does, “Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.”

“Plath.” Sherlock answers almost immediately.

“Oh good, you got that too.” Without meaning to, Jim smiles.

 

* * *

 

When they sit down for tea, the artifice is stifling. The fairytale Jim is telling himself all while they speak: that he _doesn’t_ want to be in his lap right now. That he _doesn’t_ want Sherlock to just kiss him. That he _isn’t_ currently thinking about that night at the pool.

“What is it all for?” Sherlock asks, rousing Jim from his musings. 

“I want to solve the problem.” Jim explains, as if it’s so simple. As if Sherlock could see everything in his eyes, stretching out over the horizons of probability. “ _Our_ problem: the final problem.” Maybe he can. He seemed to know earlier, who’s to even so much as _assume_ he’s lost sight? “It’s gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall…” 

“But don’t be scared.” Even if he himself was, _is,_ “Falling’s just like flying, except there’s a more permanent destination.”

Sherlock hums, standing up, clearly not amused (or at least pretending not to be). “Never liked riddles.” And good god, does he need to adjust the buttons on his suit _right_ at this instant? Everything feels so scandalous. 

“Learn to.” Jim swallows, eyes flitting briefly from Sherlock’s face, down, down, _down_ … Snapping back up, “Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I... _Owe_... You.”

The look he gets back is… almost sad. A blank face so obviously, laboriously stretching over despair. Remorse. _Longing_. And Jim, eyes beginning to water, simply can’t take it. There’s something within himself that looks all too much like it, shield of dissociation unable to ignore something so close to home. 

He isn’t _that_ strong. 

“Oh… _hell._ ” Jim curses, face pained as he gives in, closing the distance between them. Sherlock doesn’t even bother to act surprised (possibly for the best, anything else would be a lie), or even resist with protestations of their damaging break up. No, they’re both better than that, more _needy_ than that.

Both so needy that they don’t even bother to leave the living room, clothes strewn around them like some debauched nest in front of an empty hearth.


	31. But Lyrics Can Change

As much as he’d like to, Jim doesn’t stay long. There’s only so long he can luxuriate in what amounts to yet another mistake, no matter how good it felt at the time. He breaks out of Sherlock’s intimate embrace, going to collect his clothes.

“You can talk to me, you know.” Sherlock offers, sitting up, his suit jacket wrinkling beneath his arse.

“I do.” Jim _knows,_ it’s just not going to help anything. He’d seen something in Sherlock, yes, something that kept calling him back. That wasn’t exactly something he could put into words, and could only be made worse by acknowledging it. _It ends soon, it all does,_ Jim reminds himself, trying to keep his eyes off the new stain on the carpet.

He dresses fast, jacket back on within five minutes. Sherlock elects to stay naked, standing only to give him a parting hug. They both linger on it a moment too long, some part of them aware that this is possibly, _likely,_ the last time their bodies will fit together in such a way.

There’s something heartbreakingly beautiful about that.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John shouts from the doorway.

It’s almost enough to get Jim to laugh again, something beautiful in that tone of incredulity all in itself.

 

* * *

 

They meet again on the roof, but it isn’t the same. The sun shines freely, touching every part of their vision, but their worlds are clouded as they’ve ever been. There had been something so _present_ when they’d met — _coupled_ — the previous afternoon, but now Jim seems beyond reach.

“Your only three friends in the world will die, unless…” Jim is so gleeful, or fakes it really well. Some of it _is_ genuine, knowing a good story shall wind to a satisfying conclusion. Most of it is just exhaustion, the promise of a long sleep incoming.

“Unless I kill myself, complete your story.” Sherlock finishes.

Jim nods, “You’ve got to admit, that’s sexier.”

“And I die in disgrace.” Superfluous to even mention.

“Of course, that is the _point_ of this.” The criminal looks over the edge. He should be _happy,_ he’s won, is _winning,_ will be the victor of today, and forever. Especially since he won’t live to see the sunset — who would want to, anyway? The game is over. There will never be another so worthy of his time.

But then Sherlock just has to ruin it.

“Why are you doing this?” The detective asks, staring over the edge of the roof.

No. No. It should be over by now, Jim had only planned for… Well, plan, contact with the enemy, old saying. He wasn’t entirely unprepared, but the question itself is odd — didn’t they always know? Understand each other’s motives without much thought? Sherlock had rarely asked the question _why,_ to anything. Perhaps logic fails when death draws so near.

Or perhaps Sherlock just wants to hear it. It takes a second, but Jim decides he’s in a giving mood. Last thing he might ever do, after all. Assuring a lover… seemed poetic enough.

He laughs, despite feeling very little cheer anywhere in his body. A hollow shell with a dying heart in the middle, suspended by a thread. “It is possible to love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved with divine love.”

“When loving with human love one may pass from love to hatred, but divine love cannot change.” Sherlock whispers in reply, not a beat missed, “Neither _death_ … Nor anything else can destroy it.” He places a hand over his racing heart, which feels on the verge of breaking. “It is the very essence of the soul.”

“Then you understand, you truly do. This is by far the… _kindest_ thing I can do for you.” A small concession to weakness, Jim leans his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes, heart still cast on the pavement below. There’s something far scarier about looking at the _man,_ rather than the murder weapon. “It will never end, this way.”

“It… doesn’t have to end today, either.” But the argument is weak, and Sherlock knows it.

“You’re scared.” Jim whispers, straightening out again, eyes finally meeting the detective’s, “It’s okay. I am too. But there are much scarier things here.”

Sherlock stands steadfast, face expressionless, eyes searching Jim’s soul, or are trying to. He can’t answer, because it’s just true.

In that, Jim finds the final proof. The final solace and comfort he needs, “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.” His voice is grave, but somehow hopeful. Cheerful. _Grateful_. He offers his hand, his right.”You were the best distraction."

Muscles heavy, Sherlock reaches out, taking his hand, thumb skirting softly over Jim’s. They hold for a second, then Jim goes for the gun, pulling it out with his left hand, right still on Sherlock’s.

“ _No!_ ” Sherlock shouts, taking but a split second to realize what’s happening. Without thought, he lunges forward, hand breaking free from Jim’s, fingers curling over either of his wrists, pinned on either side of his head as they land backwards on the roof. “No.” He repeats, this time a desperate plea in his lover’s ear, “Please, no.”

But Jim can barely hear him, thrashing on the ground. _No,_ his own mind shouts, his beloved Beretta forced from his hand, clattering, skidding many feet away, out of any conceivable reach. Sherlock is too heavy, holding him down, away from _salvation._ He tries to claw away at him, but he’s so weak, confused, it was supposed to be _over…_

All he can do is cry.

Sherlock doesn’t speak, just lays there for what feels like _forever._ Eventually, he lets go of Jim’s hands, lets him claw, and hit, and attack, and whatever else, but it’s all without _strength._ Jim just wants to retaliate out of frustration, but there’s no soul behind it.

“I love you.” Sherlock says, repeats again and again. Jim still cries, crumples in on himself, deteriorating into hugging around him, cursing his name.

“Goddamn you…” Jim sputters, breathes heaving fast, “Why couldn’t you just…”

“It’s okay.” Sherlock tries, “It’s okay.”

“ _No it’s not!_ ” Jim nearly screams, nearly getting worked back up.

“Then we’ll figure it out.” Sherlock corrects, “Please. You have to let me try.”


	32. Epilogue

Jim is going over the logistics of a train job, though “going over” might be overly generous. More that he’s _dictating_ what will happen, and one of his clients is trying to offer silly ideas that would only amount to wasting time. He holds the phone away from his face, not really interested in listening — this is his punishment for never letting “Moriarty” have direct contact. He’s just a high-ranking underling today.

His phone vibrates suddenly. Odd, no one should be bothering him.

 

**Hang up. -SH**

 

Ah. The old ball and chain.

 

**I’m not done yet.**

 

**And yet I can hear your aggravation from across the city. It’s not that important. -SH**

**Hang up. -SH**

 

Jim frowns at the screen, but… He did agree. Sighing, Jim pressed the large, red _end_ button on his phone. If his client had a problem, Jim would name drop _the boss,_ and there would be no further discussion.

 

**Come home? -SH**

 

**For what?**

 

**That’d ruin the surprise. -SH**

 

Rolling his eyes, Jim doesn’t reply, but hails a cab to Baker Street anyway.

Staying alive remains a tricky subject. He’s still just… _staying._ But somehow, with Sherlock, that burden didn’t _accost_ him every day. Of course he’d remember it, every now and then, but it could be chased away. Even kept far, far away from the island of his mind, no longer the shadow hanging like a corpse where his soul once was.

Even thinking about it now, mystery and a blue scarf flashes across his memory — Jim smiles out the window.

 

* * *

 

_“Then we’ll figure it out. Please. You have to let me try.”_

Jim hadn’t replied to Sherlock’s plea, but he stopped struggling. Gone limp, almost hopeless. Regardless, it was a submission of a kind, and they went to work.

 

* * *

 

It’s been hard to stay _present,_ it’s not something that comes naturally to either of the consultants. Yet, Jim hasn’t regretted trying. Arriving at Baker Street — where he’d taken up sleeping about 60% of the time — he feels his heart pick up pace, a tiny dash of endorphins, chemical anticipation of seeing Sherlock.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Jim is immediately greeted with a hug, face naturally coming to nestle in Sherlock’s lapel, “Hi.”

“I missed you.” Sherlock whispers, stealing a kiss as he releases the hug, hands falling to meet Jim’s.

“I was barely gone a day.”

“And?” He smiles, pulling them both into the kitchen, an assortment of ingredients piled on an otherwise meticulously sanitized counter.

“And… what are we doing?” Flour, sugar, butter, baking powder, seemed pretty standard for baking… something? Not that Jim had ever been much good with anything more complicated than a loaf of bread.

“I want a cronut.” Sherlock is speaking words, yes, but they don’t make any sense.

“A… what?”

“A cronut.” Sherlock repeats, “There was a murder committed over a box of them, I want to know what the hype is.”

“You can just buy them…” Jim points out, eying the butter suspiciously — was it even still good? When was the last time Sherlock even went grocery shopping?

“In New York. I’ve got things to do, and jet lag ruins my process.” Sherlock shrugs, “Besides, didn’t I just say someone got killed over them? I’m not risking my life over a doughnut.”

“I… it’s a doughnut?” Jim scowls, “I don’t even know how to make them.”

“Neither do I, but the internet says it’s quite complicated, and takes days.” Sherlock almost seems excited by the prospect, pulling out his mobile, opening a silly cooking blog, “Should serve a worthy distraction. Especially if it’s easy to mess up.” His face lights up, “Which yes, they are.”

“Days. For a doughnut.” Jim takes the phone in disbelief, scrolling through some of the instructions and _jesus_ did it go on forever.

“Maybe there’s some credibility to this murder after all…” Sherlock posits, patting Jim on the shoulder, “You might want to change into something I can cover in flour.”

Jim scowls, unbuttoning his suit jacket. As he stalks back to Sherlock’s room, intent on finding a ratty tee shirt, it becomes a smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Fin~


End file.
